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Time-honored tomes ! 

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Statue of "Poetry." 

(Grand Opera House, Paris.) 



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JEMS OF GENIUS 

IN 

POETRY AND ART, 

FROM THE 

KINGS AND QUEENS OF THOUGHT; 

AXD INCLUDING 



MANY PROSE SELECTIONS, A BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF 

AUTHORS, EJC. 

By Frederick Saunders, 

Librarian of the Astor Library, Author of " Salad for the Solitary 

AXD the Social," " Evenings with the Sacred Poets, Etc., Etc, 



r. 



M. 1^7 Davis, 

Author of " Fairy Gold," "Life of Rt, Hon. W.E. Gladstone," " The Lol- 
lard : A Story of the Wiclifites, Etc., Etc. 



- V 



ILLUSTRATED "" 2'^""'«^)/ 

By One Hundred and Tex Portraits of Authors, Numerous . / 

Autograph Stanzas in Fac-Simile, and Many Other 
Pictures by Eminent Artists and Engravers. 

6 






ST. LOUIS AND PHILADELPHIA : 

SCAMMELL & CO., PUBLISHERS, 

1888. 



n^\^{ 








COPTRTGHT, 1888, 

BY H. B. SCAMMELL 

A II Rights Reserved. 



'HE subject of Poetry has perhaps been discussed by a greater number of 
thinkers than any other connected with letters ; but no one has as yet suc- 

^ ceeded in defining the term to the satisfaction of his brother critics. To 
attempt that wherein so many of skill and experience in the expression of 
ideas have so signally failed, would be the part of one who has not even studied 
the subject sufficiently to know where the difficulty lies. It will then, perhaps, 
be better to be contented with an effort to explain the principles underlying the 
arrangement of the selections in the following pages; trusting that the reader 
may discern that not only the verses, but the prose extracts likewise herein 
given, have been chosen because they possess this same indefinable property 
which we call Poetry. 

The most obvious theme for a writer to choose is either a description of what 
he perceives f or what he feels. Taking first the Emotions as the moving spring, 
as the power which urges him to expression, the natural question arises : What 
kind of feelings? Is he to speak of joy or of sorrow? Is he to touch upon the 
ties that bind him to others ? Is he to put into words the highest aspirations of 
which man is capable ? All these form fitting subjects for the writer, whether he 
put himself, or some imaginary self, into his pages ; and Joy and Sorrow, TheAf- 
fectionSy and Religion have for ages been the themes upon which our best and 
brightest minds have loved to think. 

But emotion is passive ; there is the result of it which follows naturally as the 
fruit succeeds the blossom. From mere feeling, deepened and strengthened, 
comes Passion, and passion produces Action, The man of letters, then, who has 
sounded the depths of feeling, turns naturally to its outgrowth, and depicts the 
stronger powers that control the human soul; painting, with the utmost contrast 
of light and shade, the image of doing. 

Turning now to the other subject which has been mentioned as iikely to be 
chosen at first, we can readily perceive the divisions into which the productions 
of the pen will fall. He may write of Beauty, as it is manifested in nature and 
art ; of Characters, Persons, and of Places. The last group, it must be understood, 
comprehends not only the '' few, the immortal names, " but the various types 
of character with which we daily meet, and which are the study of the phil- 
osopher. Here too may be considered those creations of the mind which have 



vi PREFACE. 

impressed the world of readers with their personality ; for when savants gravely 
discuss the question of Hamlet's sanity, surely we must acknowledge that there 
may be real men and women who have never trod the earth. 

But there is more than the expression of emotion and perceptions to deal with ; 
there is the realm in which Thought holds the higher place. In this division, 
there is, first and foremost, Beflection, or the application of the results of feeling 
and experience of externals to the inner life, thus aifecting the outer life as well. 
The mind manifests itself in another, and totally different way, next; no longer 
grave and wise, it gives itself up to the wildest dreams; and in these, when cun- 
ningly imbued with that "drop of human blood" which is necessary to give 
interest, we have the pleasing flights of Fancy. Finally, the mental powers, 
having thus far relaxed their grave efl'orts, resolve to throw care to the winds, 
and give themselves up to Wit and the more kindly ^wmor. 

Such is the theory upon which the arrangement of the selections which follow 
is based. In practice, however, the classification is often extremely difficult. 
The broad lines which have here been marked out as dividing the varieties of 
mental effort are often obliterated in a single page; and the writer will, in the 
course of a few paragraphs or stanzas, pass from description of beautiful scenes, 
to the persons who beheld them, and to the emotions aroused in the breasts of 
these men and women to whom he thus gives existence. 

Without, then, proposing the arrangement herein adopted as perfect, or 
even the best that could possibly be made, it is submitted to the reader as the 
best of which the editor is capable; trusting that the kindliness excited by the 
sight of so many representatives of favorite authors may lead him to more en- 
joyment than fault-finding. 

M. K. Davis. 





Title. Author. Page. 

Nature and Song M. K". Davis... Cover 

LINING 

Nature and Books M. K. Davis Fly 

LEAF 

Preface M. K. Davis v 

Contents vii 

List of Illustrations xviii 

List of Portraits xxiv 

List of Autograph Fac- 
similes xxvi 

Good News, or Bad? G. Weatherly 29 

Sunlight and Shade G. Weatherly 29 

Under My Window T. Westwood 80 

Little Bell T. Westwood 30 

Babie Bell's Coming T. B. Aldrich 31 

Companionship with Chil- 
dren N. 

The Gambols of Children G. 

Mother Nature C. 

Tbe Merry Heart H. 

The Komance of the Swan's 

Nest E. B. Browning... 33 

Sonnet: "Care-charmer Sleep, 

son of the sable Night" S. Daniel 35 

Some Murmur When Their 

Sky is Clear E. C. Trench 35 

Sonnet; "Life, joy and 
splendor with the year 

awake" Anonymous ........ 35 

Selections from "The Prin- 
cess " A. Tennyson 36 

The House of Clay Anonymous 36 

A Ballad upon a Wedding Sir John Suckling 37 

On the Threshold Anonymous 38 

Invocation to Sleep Beaumont and 

Fletcher 39 
A Question M. Arnold 39 



Hawthorne 31 

Darley 32 

Young 33 

H. Milman -33 



Title. Author. Page. 

It Never Comes Again E. H. Stoddard... 39 

Alone E. A. Poe 40 

The Baby, G. McDonald 41 

At the King's Gate Anonvmous 41 

Keys B. Chandler 41 

Maidenhood H.W. Longfellow 42 

The City of the Living E. A. Allen 43 

Beyond the Gate K. M. Eice 43 

Best A. J. Eyan 44 

The World Goes Up and the 

World Goes Down C. Kingsley 44 

Song, "When the dimpled 

water shppeth" J. Ingelow 44 

Sonnet: "Come, Sleep, O 
Sleep, the certain knot" ....Sir Philip Sidney.. .45 

A Dream A. A. Procter 45 

Driving Home the Cows K.P. Osgood 46 

The World's Indifference W. M. Thackeray 46 

Waiting Anonymous 47 

The Lady's Dream T. Hood 48 

Auld Eobin Gra}^ .Lady Ann Lindsay 49 

Ode to Adversity T.Gray 50 

Eock Me to Sleep E.A.Allen 51 

Oft in the Stilly Night T. Moore 51 

Affliction Louise DeLaEame 51 

Weariness H.W.Longfellow 52 

Song, from "The Prin- 
cess" A. Tennyson 53 

Enoch's Eeturn A. Tennyson 53 

Complaint J. G. Holland 55 

To The "Eve" ofPowers H. T. Tuckerman..55 

Ode to An Indian Gold 

Coin J. Leyden 55 

Break, Break, Break A. Tennyson 56 

The Old Familiar Faces C.Lamb 57 

The Barefoot Boy J. G. Whittier 57 

Sleeping and Watching E. B. Browning..,.. 59 



viii 



CONTENTS. 



Title. Author. Page. 

The Moneyless Man H. T. Stanton 60 

Songs of Seven J. Ingelow 61 

The Return of Rip Van 

Winkle W.Irving 67 

A Song of Long Ago J. W. Riley 71 

Down on The Suwannee 

River Anonymous 71 

Beautiful Snow Anonymous 71 

"Oh, that this too, too solid 

flesh would melt" W. Shakspere 72 

Song : from "As You Like 

It" W. Shakspere 73 

" On This Day I Complete 

My Thirty-sixth Year" Lord Byron 73 

Lines W^ritten by One in the 

Tower, Being Young and 

Condemned to Die C. Tychborn 73 

Juliet Taking the Opiate "W. Shakspere 74 

The Mitherless Bairn W. Thorn 75 

Desolation of Balclutha J. Macpherson 75 

The Song of the Shirt T. Hood 77 

Life T.Hood 78 

Parting Anonymous 78 

Barbara's Song W. Shakspere 78 

Secret Sorrows George Eliot 78 

Saturn andThea J. Keats 79 

lo Victis W. W. Story 80 

Annabel Lee E.A. Poe 81 

Florence Vane P. P. Cooke 81 

" Home they brought her 

warrior dead" A. Tennyson 82 

The Old Arm Chair E.Cook 82 

Lucy .....W. Words worth... 88 

Longing for Death P. Massinger 83 

Somebody's Darling M. R. Lacoste 83 

Vanished Blessings Gr. Wither 83 

The Blind Old Milton E. L. Howell 85 

Migration E. M. Thomas 85 

Dirge P. D. Hemans 85 

The High Tide on the Coast 

of Lincolnshire J. Ingelow 87 

The Death Bed T. Hood 88 

Lines W. D. Gallagher..90 

The Voice of the Waves C. Dickens 90 

The Disappointed E. W.Wilcox 91 

The Apples are Ripe in the 

Orchard W. Winter 91 

Misshapen Lives George Eliot 91 

The Sands of Dee C. Kingsley 93 

Beyond the Veil H. Vaughan 94 



Title. Author. Page 

Dirge for a Young Girl J. T. Fields.... ...o.94 

Song: "If I had thought 

thou could'st have died"... C. Wolfe 94 

To Mary in Heaven R. Burns 96 

A Farewell M. E. Cook 95 

The Three Fishers C. Kingsley 97 

Sonnet: "What doth it serve 

to see sun's burning" W. Drummond 97 

The Sack of Baltimore T. Davis 97 

The Dead Mariner G. D. Prentice 98 

The Picket Guard E. L. Meers 99 

My Child J. Pierpont 100 

Selections from "In Memo- 

riam" A. Tennyson 101 

" Softly woo away her 

Breath B. W. Procter. ..103 



low. 



104 
104 



The Phantom B. Taylor.... 

Sonnet: "Sweet Spring, thou 

turn'st with all thy" W. Drummond. ..105 

Death of Gabriel H. W. Longfel- 
low 106 

There Is No Death „...BulwerLytton....l07 

The Bridge of Sighs T. Hood 108 

Olden Memories C. Cist 109 

The Death of the Babe 

Christabel G. Massey 110 

Mourning W. Shakspere 110 

Death of Ophelia W. Shakspere... .111 

"Oh! snatched away in 

beauty's bloom" Lord Byron Ill 

Grandmother's Sermon Anon3''mous Ill 

Found Dead H. Jackson 112 

"I have been a happy man " N. Hawthorne.... 112 

Death at the Goal B. Miller 113 

Remembrance A. M. F. Robin- 
son 113 

"Sweet by-and-by" E. J. Hall 115 

Loss J. Ruskin 115 

The Georgia Volunteer Anonymous 116 

In Watches of the Night W. "Winter 116 

Spoken After Sorrow J. C. Marsh 116 

In Time to Come Anonymous 117 

"When shall we three meet 

again?" Anonymous 117 

The Long Ago Lord Houghton. ..117 

Sea Ventures Anonymous 118 

Annie's Dream A. Tennyson 118 

The First Snowfall J. R. Lowell 119 



JhE ^ffECTI0N3. 



On the River J. A. Blaikie 122 

The Mother's Vigil J. F. Fargusson...l23 

Etude Realiste C. A. Swinburne ..123 



Better Moments N. P. Willis 123 

A Mother's Love F. Johnson 124 

Little Childreri L, A. Boieg„ooo,...J25 



CONTENTS. 



IX 



Tiile. Author. Page. 

Sundered Friends N. Perry 125 

The Bridge of Snow Anonymous 125 

A Mother's Love T. Burbidge 126 

" He that loves a rosy cheek" T. Carew ..127 

Woman, the Home-Maker T. Campbell 127 

What It Is to Love C. Swain 127 

To a Child Embracing His 

Mother T. Hood 128 

A Woman's Forgiveness Sir W. Scott 129 

Kosalind's Madrii^al T. Lodge 129 

The Flower 0' Dumblane R. Tannahill 129 

The Gift A Webster 130 

Lullaby A.Tennyson 130 

**0h, merry, merry, betheday!" J. H. Perkins 130 

The Flower's Name E. Browning 131 

Song: "Where wind and 

water meeting made" W. Motherwell... 131 

The Mother's Hope L. Blanchard 133 

Description of Castara W. Habington....l33 

The Angel's Whisper S. Lover 134 

My Nell S. Doudney 135 

The Minstrel's Call S. T. Coleridge... 135 

Love's Burial Place S. T. Coleridge... 135 

All June I Bound the Rose in 

Sheaves E. Browning 137 

"This is a Spray the Bird 

Clung to" E. Browning 137 

On Her Birthday Anonymous 137 

The Influence of Woman Beaumont & Flet- 
cher 137 

Sonnet to a Friend W. Shakspere 137 

Beauty Eohtraut G. Meredith 138 

Sonnet to Love W. Shakspere 139 

Love's Sweet Memories S. J. Clarke 139 

A Holiday Idyl Anonvraous 139 

To * * * * P.B.Shelley 140 

From the Dedication to "The 

Eevolt of Islam" P. B. Shelley 140 

Boyhood W. Allston 140 

My Letter Anonymous 141 

The Land of Love J. B. A. Karr 142 

Home Happiness C. Swain 143 

Love is a Sickness S. Daniel 143 

Ballad: *T11 never love thee Marquis of Mon- 

more" trose 144 

My Saint Anonymous 144 

Lochaber No More A.Eamsay 144 

When the Kye Come Hame...J. Hogg 145 

Her Letter B. Harte 146 

From "The Day is Done" H. W. Longfel- 
low 148 

Love's Ghost P. B. Marston 148 

Concealed Love W. Shakspere 149 

Go Sit by the Summer Sea J. Shirley 149 

Song: "Soft pity never leaves 

the gentle breast" E. B. Sheridan.... 150 



Title. Author, Page> 

"Is She Biding?" S. M. Peck 150 

She Walks in Beauty Lord Byron 150 

My Own Shall Come Anonymous 151 

Through the Meadow W.D.Howells....l51 

Cupid Defied W. Shakspere 151 

Yesterday M. M. Forrester..l53 

Why Not? E. H. Stoddard ...153 

The Interpreter E. M. Thomas 153 

To the Evening Star J. Leyden 154 

My Only Jo and Dearie O E. Gall 154 

Sonnet : " The forward violet 

thus did I chide" W. Shakspere 154 

Song: "Tell me, where is 

f^mcybred?" W. Shakspere 154 

Your Coming D. E. Goodale....l55 

Qua Cursura Yentus A. H. Clough 156 

The Chess Board Owen Meredith... 156 

" Take, oh, take those lips 

away" W. Shakspere ....156 

The Doorstep E. C. Stedman....l57 

Music and Love W. Shakspere 159 

From "The Song of the 

Camp" B. Taylor 159 

The Lily Pond G. P. Lathrop....l60 

Balcony Scene, from "Eomeo 

and Juliet" W. Shakspere 161 

Treu und Fest Anonymous 161 

The Blue-Eyed Lassie E.Burns 161 

A Madrigal P. H. Hayne 163 

" 0, had my love ne'er smiled 

on me" E. B. Sheridan. ...163 

Serenade. Sir W. Scott 163 

Love H. B. Stowe 163 

AYhen Stars are in the Quiet 

Skies Bulwer-Lytton...l64 

The Sweet Neglect B. Johnson 164 

" Do you remember how we 

used to pace" T. Westwood 165 

Jeanie Morrison W. Motherwell.. 165 

Come into the Garden, Maud.. A. Tennj-son 166 

Who is Love J. Miller 167 

Song: "She is not fair to 

outward view" H. Coleridge 167 

" Don't be sorrowful, darling".. E. Peale 168 

A Woman's Question A. A. Procter 168 

The Coquette C. Swain 168 

How Do I Love Thee E. B. Browning ..169 

Love's Impress E. Hinxman 169 

To Celia B. Johnson 169 

Othello's Defense W. Shakspere 171 

Lochinvar Sir Walter Scott. 171 

A Glimpse of Love T. B. Eead 172 

Absence T.Campbell 172 

Euth T. Hood 172 

Song : " Why so pale and 

wan, fond lover" Sir J. Suckling... 173 



CONTENTS. 



7H,tle. Author. Page. 

Send Back My Heart Sir J. Suckling... 173 

Love, from " The Maiden 

Queen" J. Diyden 173 

Bright, O Bright Fedalma 1 G-eorge Eliot 175 

A Health E. C. Pinkney 175 

The Gold Hunter J.Miller 175 

Farewell to Nancy R. Burns 176 

The Lady's Looking-Glass M. Prior 176 

Wooing StufFe SirPhilip Sidney.176 

"Believe me, if all those en- 
dearing joung charms" T. Moore 177 

Love R. Southey 177 

" 'Tis like a tale of olden 

time" G. Massey 177 

" Hollow is the oak beside" Bulwer-Lytton....l79 

"If I desire with pleasant 

songs" T. Burbidge 179 

Evel^-n Hope R. Browning 179 

SongofEgla M. G.Brooks 180 

Love Letters R. Brown. 180 

Song : From "Supper at the 

Mill" J.Ligelow 181 

On "Woman's Inconstancy Sir R. Ayton 182 

Annie Laurie Douglas of Fing- 

land 182 

To Althea, from Prison R. Lovelace 182 

Song : " It was a lover and 

his lass" W. Shakspere ....183 

Comin' Through the R3^e Anonymous 183 

Song: "Ask meno more" T. Carew 184 

Go, Lovely Rose. E. Waller 184 

" Filled with Balm the Gale 

Sighs on" T.Moore 184 

John Alden and Priscilla H. W. Longfel- 
low 185 

Stanzas: " As when a lady, 
walking Flora's bower" F. Quarles 185 



Title. Anihor. Page. 
At the Church Gate W. M. Thacker- 
ay 186 

Triumph of Charis = .B. Jonson 187 

Song : " Withdraw not those 

lips and fingers" T. Campbell 187 

Good jVlorrow T. Heywood .187 

To Lucasta Sir R, Lovelace...l87 

Cupid and Campaspe J. Lyly 187 

Song : " Sigh no more, ladies, 

sigh no more" W. Shakspere ....188 

To the Lady Anne Hamilton..W. R. Spencer.. ..188 
The Passionate Shepherd to 

His Love C. Marlowe 189 

The Nymph's Reply Sir W. Raleigh. ..189 

Freedom and Love T. Campbell 189 

Love's Philosophy P.B.Shelley 190 

Song: "Look out, bright Beaumont &Flet- 

eyes, and bless the air" cher 191 

The Old Couple Anonymous 192 

The Exchange S. T. Coleridge....l92 

The Land o' the Leal Lady Nairn 192 

Allen-a-Dale .Sir W. Scott 193 

Genevieve S. T. Coleridge ...194 

" Farewell ! but whenever you 

welcome the hour" T. Moore 194 

Morality in Art... ....V. Cousin 194 

The Lake of the Dismal 

Swamp T. Moore 195 

Proposal B. Taylor 196 

Love S. T. Coleridge.. 197 

A Petition to Time B. W. Procter 198 

Sonnet; " In the long, sleep- H. W. Longfel- 

less watches of the night"... low. 198 

Epithalamium .J.G. C.Brainard..l99 

John Anderson R. Burns 201 

The Gude Wife J. Linen 201 

"Not Ours the Vows" B. Barton 202 



n 



Hymn on the Morning of 

Christ's Nativity J. Milton 205 

A Christmas Hymn A. Domett 209 

Come, Ye Disconsolate T. Moore 209 

The Mystic's Christmas J. G. Whittier....211 

" I would not live alway" W. A. Muhlen- 
berg 211 

Christmas in the Woods H. Weir 212 

Tl)e Wonders of All-ruling 

Providence J. Keats 213 

The Bible R. Hall 213 

God's Acre H. W. Longfel- 
low 214 

Redemption J. Dryden 214 

Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me A. mI Toplady...214 

The AVinged Worshipers C. Sprague 215 

The Good Old Times R. Heber ....215 



ELiqiOjM. 

The Cotter's Saturday Night...R. Burns.. 216 

Hymn : " Abide with me"....H. F. Lyte 221 

The Wmeij and Nine E. C. Clephane...222 

It's Ain Drap o' Dew J. Ballantine .223 

Nearer, My God, to Thee S. F. Adams 223 

Sonnet on His Blindness J. jNIilton ....223 

Lines Written in His Bible.. ..Sir W. Raleigh ...223 

Address to the Unco Guid R. Burns 225 

The Burial of Moses C. F. Alexander ..225 

Self-Knowledge T. a Kempis 226 

Evening in Paradise J. Milton o.oc227 

Example J. Keble , 229 

Song: "The harp at Nature's 

advent strung" J. G. Whittier....228 

Jesus, Lover of My Soul C. Wesley ...228 

From " Miriam" ..cJ. G. Whittier....229 

Morning Hymn ..J. Milton....... ...230 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



Title, Author. Page. 

Nearer Home P. Carey 230 

The Statue in Clay E. H. Stoddard... 231 

Up Hill C. G. Eossetti.. ..231 

Trust Anonymous 232 

The Dying Christian to His 

Soul A. Pope 233 

The Landing of the Pilgrim 

Fathers F. D. Hemans 233 

The Sleep E. B. Browning. ..233 

Abou Ben Adhem L.Hunt 234 

The Temple of Nature D. Vedder 234 

Time and Eternity E. Heber 236 

Invocation to Light J. Milton 236 

Whatever Is, Is Best Anonymous 237 

Love S. P. Jones 237 

From *'Eifts in the Cloud" W. Carleton 238 

The Hermit T. Parnell 239 

No Sects in Heaven Anonymous 243 

Missionary Hymn E. Heber 244 

Prayer J. Montgomery... 245 



Title. Author. Page. 

"Hail the High, the Holy 

One" J. Montgomery... 245 

Habit J. Taylor .245 

At the Last V. Hugo 246 

Virtue G. Herbert 246 

God... Derzhavin 246 

Sometime M. E. Smith 247 

Ode to the Creation A. Marvell 248 

Light E. Elliott 249 

Alone A. J. Eyan 249 

Only a Little Way Anonymous 250 

The Pauper's Death-Bed C. A.B. Southey..250 

Life G. Herbert 251 

The Star of Bethlehem H. K. White 251 

The Elixir G. Herbert 251 

The Spilt Pearls E. C. Trench 252 

Man's Medley G. Herbert 253 

Habit Sir T. Browne 254 

Benevolence J. Beattie 254 



The Armada T. B. Macaulay...257 

The Peri's Offering T.Moore 258 

Belshazzar B. W. Procter... .259 

Bruce's Address E. Burns 260 

Patriotism Sir W. Scott 261 

Lochiel's Warning T. Campbell 262 

The Burial of Sir John Moore..C. Wol fe 263 

Marco Bozzaris F. G. Halleck 264 

Ode to the Brave W. Collins 265 

An Ode Sir W.Jones 265 

America S. F. Smith 266 

The Traitor, from "Lalla 

Eookh" T. Moore 267 

The Bard T. Gray 267 

The American Flag J. E.Drake 269 

The Star-Spangled Banner F. S. Key 270 

Maryland J. E. Eandall 271 

Music in Camp J. E. Thompson..271 

Monterey C.F.Hoffman 272 

From "The Sword of Cas- 

truccio Castrucani" E. B.Browning... 273 

Arlington J. E. Eandall 273 

Vindication E. Emmet 274 

Cavalry Song E. C. Stedman....275 

Battle Hymn of the Eepublic Mrs. J. W.Howe.275 
"As by the shore at break of" T. Moore 275 



py^gglOJM AJMD yVcTlOJM, 



Beauty and Song T.Moore 

Love of Nature in the Decline 
of Life Lord Lytton. 

The Seasons, from "The Fai- 
ry Queen" E. Spencer.... 



5 



The Patriot's Pass Word J. Montgomery... 276 

The Harp that Once Through 

Tara's Halls T.Moore 277 

The Bivouac of the Dead T. 0' Hara 277 

" Yes, 'tis not Helm nor Fea- 
ther" T.Moore 278 

The Death of Marmion Sir W. Scott 278 

From "Marmion" Sir W. Scott 279 

Conquest of Jerusalem by the 

Crusaders E. Gibbon 279 

Twilight on the Battlefield Sir W, Scott 281 

Destruction of Sennacherib...Lord Byron 281 

Ivry T. B. Macaulay...283 

Song of the Greek Poet Lord Byron 285 

How they Brought the Good 

News from Ghent to Aix.,..E. Browning 286 

The Fall of Wolsey W. Shakspere....288 

Fear W. Shakspere....289 

The Shipwreck Lord Byron 290 

The Dream of Clarence W. Shakspere....290 

Henry V. to his Soldiers W. Shakspere....291 

A Spanish Bull-fight Lord Byron 292 

The Ingratitude of Eepublics..W. Shakspere.. ..293^ 

The Prisoner of Chillon Lord Byron 294' 

Ensign Epps J. B. O'Eeilly 295 

Charge of the Light Brigade A. Tennyson 296 



EAUTY. 



.299 



.299 



.300 



The Seasons, from "The Ee- 

Eevolt of Islam" P. B. Shelley 302 

In the October Fields E. B. Wilson 304 

October Days N. Hawthorne. ...304 

A Song in October. W. J. Henderson.804 



xu 



CONTENTS. 



Title. Author, Page. 

Echo and Silence Sir E. Brydges....305 

And Now Comes Autumn M. Eytinge 306 

Autumnal Sonnet "W. Allingham 306 

Indian Summer Mrs. Nicholls 306 

Indian Summer, from Mi- 
ami Woods W. D. Gallaglier.306 

Autumn P. B. Shelley.. ....307 

November K.H, Stoddard.. 309 

Winter W.Cowper 309 

The Snow-Shower W. C. Bryant 311 

Lost in the Snow J. Thomson 311 

The Snow-Storm J. C Whittier....312 

Midwinter Anonymous 313 

The Frost H. F. Gould 314 

Spring T. Chatterton 314 

Prelude to "The Loves of 

the Angels" T. Moore 314 

Song: "When daffodils be- 
gin to peer" W. Shakspere 315 

Spring C. A. Swinburne 315 

The Symphony of Spring J. Thomson 316 

Sonnet to Spring ....H. Howard 317 

Trout Fishing J. Thomson 317 

Song: "Woodmen, shep- 
herds, come away" J. Shirley 318 

May, from "The Faery 

Queen" E. Spenser 318 

To May L. Hunt 319 

Song to May E.Darwin 320 

June, from "The Vision of 

Sir Launfal" J.K.Lowell 320 



Summer Longings D.F, McCarthy.. .322 

A Dream of Summer J. G. Whittier....322 

They Come! The Merry Sum- 
mer Months M. Motherwell.... 322 

Song of the Summer Winds...G. Darley 324 

"Carpe Diem" Anonymous 324 

JuneDavs E. B. Wilson 325 

Flowers.". J. Pvuskin 326 

The Ivy H. Burton 327 

Three Summer Studies J. B. Hope 327 

In the. Summer Time J. Dennis.. 329 

Ivy Anonj'mous 329 

ThePhodora E. W.Emerson... 329 

Summer Eain E.C. Stedman 331 

July, from "The Earthly 

Paradise" W. Morris 331 

The Violet W.W.Story 331 

The Mountain Heartsease Bret Harte 332 

Arbutus H.Jackson 333 

Song of the Flowers L. Hunt 333 

The Language of Flowers J. G. Percival 334 

Sensitive "Plant P. B. Shellev 334 

Lilies of the Field J. Keble...." 336 

In the Woods G. Chaucer 336 



Title. Author. Page. 

Song of the Kose Sappho 336 

To an Early Primrose H. K. White 338 

Song to the Violet J. R. Lowell 338 

Almond Blossom E. Arnold 338 

To Blossoms E. Herrick 339 

The Holly Tree KSouthey 340 

The Ivy Green C. Dickens 340 

The Skylark J. Taylor 341 

To Primroses Filled with 

Morning Dew E. Herrick 342 

A Drop of Dew A. Marvell 342 

Hymn to the Flowers H. Smith 344 

To Daffodils E. Herrick 345 

To a Mountain Daisy E. Burns 345 

The Grove .". A. Cowley 345 

Daffodils W. Wordsworth.347 

The Wood Giant J. G. Whittier....347 

To the Butterfly S. Rogers 348 

The Rainbow W.Wordsworth..348 

The Nightingale H.Coleridge 349 

The Early Blue-Bird L. H. Sigourney..349 

Song: "Hark! hark! the 

lark at heaven's gate sings". W. Shakspere 349 

Song: Gayety of Nature M. R. Mitford 349 

Birds in Summer M. Howitt 351 

To a Nightingale W. Drummond..351 

The Skylark J.Hogg 351 

Ode to the Cuckoo J. Logan 352 

Robert of Lincoln W. C. Bryant 352 

To an Insect O.W.Holmes 353 

Sonnet to the Mocking- 

Bird R. H. Wilde 354 

The Chambered Nautilus O. W. Holmes. ..355 

To a Waterfowl W. C. Bryant 355 

From "The Planting of The 

Apple Tree" W.C.Bryant 356 

The Summer Birds A. B. AVelby 357 

To a Skvlark P. B. Shelley 359 

The Bobolink T.Hill 360 

Song of the River C. Kingsley 360 

The Shaded Water W. G. Simms 362 

A Wet Sheet and a Flow- 
ing Sea A. Cunningham.. 363 

Storm at Night Lord Byron 363 

Woodland Streams F. Brown 365 

The Rain L. A.Boies 365 

The Rain R. H. Stoddard. ..365 

The Fountain J. R. Lowell 365 

The Voice of Nature W. Cowper 366 

The Wayside Spring T. B. Read S67 

Apostrophe to the Ocean Lord Byron 368 

Passing thelcebergs T. B. Read 369 

Fairy Gold M. K. Davis 370 

The Sea B. W. Procter...- 370 

Fair Weather and Foul Anonymous - 371 

Northern Lights G. H. McMastd' .^73 



CONTENTS. 



Xiii 



Title. Author. Page. 

With Husky-Haughty Lips, 

O Sea W. Whitman 373 

^olian Harp W. Allingham...375 

Windless Rain P.H. Havne 375 

The Cloud P. B. Shelley 376 

The Evening Cloud J. Wilson...". 376 

Dawn N.P.Willis.: 377 

Rain on the Roof. C. Kinney, 378 

Morning Pleasures J.Thomson 378 

Sunrise in thePorest W. Gilpin 379 

Morning, from "Romeo and 

Juliet" W. Shakspere 381 

Heaven Present J. R. Lowell 381 

" To me the world's an open 

book." G.P.Morris 381 

Morning G. Chaucer 381 

Song of May Morning J. Milton 381 

Sonnet: A Jersey Summer 

Day Anonymous 381 

Morning, from " Summer "...J. Thomson 382 

Morning, from "The Min- 
strel" J. Beattie 382 

Morning, from "Pharonnida" W . Chamber- 

layne 383 

Night, from "The Night 

Thoughts" E. Young 384 

The Gray Nun V. B. Harrison.. .384 

Bugle Song, from " The Prin- 
cess" ....A. Tennyson 385 

When Day Meets Night C. W. Coleman..387 

Twilight H. Merivale 387 

Evening Calm T. Moore 387 

Twilight Sir U. Price 388 

Night, from " Queen Mab "...P. B. Shelley 388 



Title. Author. Page. 
A Stormy Sunset by the Sea- 
side SirW. Scott 389 

Our Inland Summer Night- 
fall R. Lowell 390 

Sunset A. Smith 390 

Sonnet on Night J. B. White 391 

Night W. Habington....391 

Moonrise E. Jones 391 

Night at Sea L. Landon 393 

Summer Evening A. B. Welby 393 

Song of Nourmahal, from 

"Lalla Rookh" T. Moore 394 

From "The Self-Enchanted "C.Lamb 394 

Music, from "Merchant of 

Venice" W. Shakspere 394 

Mare Rubrum O.W.Holmes 394 

The Harp the Monarch Min- 
strel Swept Lord Byron 396 

Drinking A. Cowley 396 

Lowly Pleasures B. W. Procter ....396 

Music W. Strode 396 

Observation C. C. Colton 397 

Distance M. W. Hamilton.397 

Music R. W. Emerson...397 

The Old Oaken Bucket S. Wood worth.... 398 

The Bells of Shandon F. Mahony 399 

Woodman, Spare That Tree.. .G. P. Morris 399 

Common Things S. W. Duffield...400 

An Orderfor aPicture A. Cary 400 

Youth and Age S. T. Coleridge... 401 

Secluded Beauty T. Moore 402 

The Press B. Tavlor 402 

Music o T. Carlyle 402 

Song of Steam G. W. Cutter 404 



?i 



E^30N3 AJMD 

Afternoon C. G. Eastman.... 407 

Little Brown Hands Anonymous 407 

The Milking Maid C. G. Rossetti 408 

Women and Children P. Tennyson 409 

The Backwoodsman O. W. B. Peabody 409 

From Little Red Riding Hood. .L. E. Landon 411 

Auld Rob Morris R.Burns 411 

The Husbandman J. Stirling 411 

Wanted ! J. G. Holland 412 

Men of Genius Generally 

Cheerful F.Jeffrey 413 

The Vicar W. M. Praed 413 

The Village Blacksmith H. W. Longfel- 
low 414 

A Portrait E. B. Browning... 415 

Jaffar L. Hunt 416 

The Character of Falstaff. W. Hazlett 418 

The Old Minstrel Sir W. Scott 418 

The Prairie Hunter... W. C. Bryant 419 



;pHARACTEf^3. 



The Plowman , O. W.Holmes ....420 

" What figure more immova- 
bly august" ....J. R. Lowell 420 

The Poor Parson G. Chaucer 422 

Unseen Spirits N. P. Willis 422 

The School-Mistress W. Shenstone 423 

The Fop W. Shakspere 428 

Una E. Spenser 430 

Th'e Vicar of Wakefield J. Bos well 431 

Departure of the Pilgrims G. Chaucer 432 

Katherine's Defense W. Shakspere 433 

Hotspur's Death W. Shakspere 433 

Anne Hathaway W. Shakspere 433 

Beethoven M. H. Krout 434 

"The mossy marbles rest" O. W. Holmes. ...434 

The Last Leaf O. W. Holmes... .435 

To Margaret Hussey J. Skelton 436 

Cleopatra W. Shakspere 437 

Dickens in Camp B. Harte 437 



xiv 



CONTENTS. 



7H,ile, Author. Page. 

Emilie G. Chaucer. 439 

A Poet's Creed V. Hugo 439 

Song: from "Two Gentle- 
men of Verona" W. Shakspere 439 

The Poet's Wife W. Wordsworth 440 

Rondeau L. Hunt 440 

To Thomas Moore Lord Byron 441 

John Howard Payne W. H. Carleton...441 

John Howard Payne J. G. Saxe 441 

Philip, My King D. M. Craik 442 

"Philip, My King" M. J. Preston 443 

Burns F. Halleck 443 

Robert Burns J. Montgomery ...444 

Cowper's Grave E. B. Browning. ..444 

At the Grave of Burns W. Wordsworth 445 

At the Grave of Keats C. P. Cranch 447 

On the death of Joseph Rod- 
man Drake P. Halleck 447 

Elizabeth W. Shakspere 449 



Title. Author. Page. 

On Queen Elizabeth Sir P. Sidney 449 

Character of Queen Elizabeth..D. Hume 449 

Character of Mary Queen of 

Scots W. Robertson ....450 

The Father of History T. B. Macaulay. .451 

To His Mistress, the Queen 

of Bohemia Sir H. Wotton....452 

To the Duchess of Sutherland C.E. S. Norton ...453 
Milton, Dante, and -^s- 

chylus T. B. Macaulay... 454 

Zimri J. Dry den 455 

Antony's Oration W. Shakspere 457 

Antony to Ciesar's Body W. Shakspere.. ..458 

William Walker J. Miller 458 

Charles XII S. Johnson 459 

Napoleon at St. Helena T. Carlyle 460 

Marco Griffoni S. Rogers 460 

Burial of Lincoln R. H. Stoddard... 461 

Dirge for a Soldier G. H. Boker 462 



pLACEg. 



A Scene Recalled M. Akenside 465 

Home J. Montgomery... 465 

Verses on the Prospect of 
Planting Arts and Learn- 
ing in America G. Berkeley 466 

Home, Sweet Home J. H. Payne 466 

Sweet Home Anonymous 467 

The Battlefield W. C. Bryant 467 

The Acadian Farmhouse H. W. Longfel- 
low 468 

Niagara J. G. C. Brainard.468 

Noonday Rest H. D. Thoreau....470 

The Battlefield C. Dickens 470 

Mountain Neighbors L. Larcom 471 

The Buccaneer's Island R. H. Dana 471 

The Prairies W. C. Bryant 472 

New Amsterdam W. Irving 473 

The Strength of the Hills L. C. Moulton....475 

America to Great Britain W. Allston 477 

South American Scenery W. L. Bowles 477 

The Coral Grove J. G. Percival 477 

The Forest W.D.Gallagher. .478 

An English Mansion J. G. Lockhart...479 

Primeval Nature R. Pollok .480 

Song of the Brook A. Tennyson 481 

A Summer Sabbath Walk J. Grahame 481 

Sweet Swan of Avon O. W. Holmes... .482 

The Homes of England F. D. Hemans 484 

Sonnet : " Worthy the patri- 
ot's thought and poet's lyre" H. T. Tuckerman 485 

The Desert'ed Village O. Goldsmith 486 

Autumn in the Highlands: R. Buchanan 492 

A Swedish Country Church H. W. Longfel- 
low 493 

A Forest Walk A. B. Street 494 



Old England A. C. Coxe 495 

Nutting W. Words worth.. 496 

A Forest Hymn W. C. Bryant 497 

The Al ham bra by Moon- 
light W.Irving 499 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of 

Eton College T.Gray 501 

Sonnet; "Earth has not any- 
thing to show more fair".. ..W.Wordsworth, .503 

The Thames S. J. Denham 503 

Lines: "Five years have 
passed : five summers with 

the length " W. Wordsworth. .503 

The Burning of Chicago.. B. F. Taylor 505 

The Traveler O. Goldsmith 507 

Sonnet: "The world is too 

much with us" W. Words worth.. 508 

A Chamber Scene B. W. Procter.... 508 

Rome J.Miller 509 

Ruins on the Rhine G. Eliot 509 

At Sorrento A. Webster 510 

The Forsaken Farm-house J. G. Whittier....510 

The Alps Lord Byron 511 

Solitude Lord Byron 511 

Venice Lord Byron 513 

From the Castle of Indolence. J. Thompson 513 

On a Library A. C. Botta 515 

Modern Greece. Lord Byron 515 

Italy C. Dickens 516 

Phoebe Pyncheon's Chamber. .N. Hawthorne 517 

The Hollow Down by the 

Flare C. Dickens 519 

The Haunted House T. Hood 520 

To a Library G. Crabbe., 522 

Description of Arcadia Sir P. Sidney 522 



CONTENTS. 



XV 



Title. Author, Page, 

Proem J. G. Whittier....525 

" The sunrise never failed us 

yet" C. Thaxter 525 

Pain in Pleasure E. B. Browning.. .526 

Nothing Lost T. Carlyle 527 

" But heard are the voices "....T. Carlyle 527 

The Arrow and the Song H. W. Longfel- 
low 527 

Nature and Art H. W. Longfel- 
low 527 

Ode on a Grecian Urn John Keats 528 

Echoes Anonymous 528 

Light F. W. Bourdil- 

lon 529 

Appreciation T. B. Aldrich 529 

Mercy W. Shakspere 530 

Keputation W. Shakspere 530 

Upon the Beach H. D. Thoreau...530 

Imagination W. Shakspere 530 

A Defence of Enthusiasm H. T. Tucker- 
man 531 

A Noble Life P. J. Bailey 532 

Wisdom Unapplied E. B. Browning... 532 

Memory S. Kogers 533 

Memory W. S. Landor 533 

Power and Genius Lord Lytton 533 

Culture M.Arnold 534 

Perfection W. Shakspere 534 



l^JEfLECTiOJN. 



L'Al! 



egro 



.J. Milton 535 



II Penseroso J. Milton 537 

Truth J.Milton 540 

Knowledge and Power T. De Quincey.,..541 

Mirth J. C. Hare 541 

Valor and Virtue C. Maekay 541 

Intellectual Beauty A. Smith 541 

"Thoughts" K. H. Stoddard.... 542 

Different Minds K. W. Emerson...542 

Gnosis C. P.jCranch 543 

The Happy Life Sir H. Wotton...543 

Memories J. G. Whittier....545 

The Heritage J.Thomson 545 

Fame .^ J. Milton 547 

From "The Masque of Comus" J. Milton 547 

Beauty John Keats 548 

Hope T.Campbell 548 

OfObscm% A. Cowley 549 

For Praise E. Young 550 

Advice to Poets A. Pope 550 

A Contented Mind J. Sylvester 551 

Procrastination E. Young 551 

Perception of Poetry G. Eliot 551 

A Taste for Beading Sir J. Herscbel...552 

From an Epistle to the 

Countess of Cumberland.... S. Daniel ...552 

Against Keadiness to Take 

Offence 0. Feltham 553 



Title. Author. Page. 

Continue not in Anger J. Lyly 553 

Plagiarism H. Heine 553 

The Mind O'erthrown W. Shakspere 555 

My Mind to me a Kingdom is W. Bvrd 555 

Books O. W\ Holmes. ...555 

The Lost Elixir A. Dobson 557 

The Songs That Are Not 

Sung J. B. O'Reilly 557 

" For in this mortal frame".. ..S. T. Coleridge ...557 

The Poet's Mourners Sir W. Scott 559 

Vanitas Vanitatum T. Carew 559 

The Way to Sing H. Jackson 559 

Characteristics of Modern 

Critics J. Swift 560 

Desire of Knowledge J. Boswell 560 

Letter-Writing A. Trollope 560 

The Boundary C. Perry 561 

A Bird's Song Anonymous 561 

The Song He Never Wrote. ..H. Jackson 562 

Studies Sir F. Bacon 562 

Books C.Lamb 563 

What Might be Done C. Maekay 564 

Oh! Why Should the Spirit 

of Mortal be Proud W. Knox 565 

The Song and the Singer T. Carlyle 566 

On the Picture of "A^ Child 

Tired of Play." N. P. Willis 566 

Cato's Soliloquy on the Im- 
mortality of the Soul J. Addison 567 

American English W. D. Howells ...568 

Aphorisms and Compari- 
sons J. Swift 568 

Gold T. Hood 569 

The Reward J. G. Whittier....569 

Spes est Vates J. G. Saxe 570 

Fire and Strength M. Arnold 570 

The Question Illustrated by 

Nature J. G. Holland 571 

Each and All R. W. Emerson. ..572 

The Soul's Errand Sir W. Raleigh....573 

The Hereafter A.Pope 574 

Little at First, but Great 

at Last C. Maekay 574 

Sweetness and Light M. Arnold 575 

Somebody Anonymous 576 

Every Day Anonymous 576 

Who Bides His Time J. W. Riley 576 

" Who can judge a man from 

Manners" Anonymous 577 

Simplicity .J. Ruskin 577 

Education J.Addison 577 

The Interpreters C. A. Swinburne 578 

This Life is What We Make 

It Anonymous 578 

Education D.Webster 579 

Sometime G-. D. Prentice.... 579 



xn 



CONTENTS. 



Title. Author. Page. 

Unrealit}' W. Shakspere 579 

A Fool W. Shakspere.. ..579 

Scandal Anonymous 580 

Don't Take It to Heart Anonymous 580 

Polonius to Laertes W. Shakspere 580 

Suggestion M. Browne 580 

Cheerfulness W. Dunbar 581 

Test of Friendship J. G. Saxe 581 

Tenterden Steeple and Good- 
win Sands H. Latimer 582 

After the Midnight Cometh 

Morn A. Pike 583 

On Good Breeding Lord Chesterfield 583 

Behavior K. W. Emerson...585 

Ode on the Intimations of 

Immortality W. 'Wordsworth..585 

Intuitions., E. B. Browning ...590 

Chorus C. A. Swinburne 590 

The Poetry of Life F. Yon Schiller ..590 

"The days of infancy are alia 

dream" R. Southey 592 

Man E. Young 592 

The Convict Ship T. K. Hervey 592 

The Nabob S. Blamire 593 

Youth R. Burns 593 

Troubles of Childhood George Eliot 595 

The Pleasures of Poverty C. Lamb 595 

Misused Art J. Ruskin 596 

Woman's Voice E. Arnold 597 

The World a Stage W. Shakspere-.....597 

Work T. Carlyle 599 

Life B. W. Procter 599 

There is No Rest J. N. Matthews ...599 

Prosperity and Adversity Sir F. Bacon 600 

Better Things G. McDonald 600 

Retirement from the World... S. Johnson 601 

There's a Silver Lining to 

Every Cloud E. Cook 601 

Recreation T. Fuller 602 

The Way of the World E. W. Wilcox.. ..603 

Gifts E. Lazarus 603 

The Neglected Pattern P. Cary 604 

Affinitus C. R. Lathrop 604 

Vanity Fair F. Locker 605 

The Culprit Fay J. R.Drake 627 

Ariel's Song W. Shakspere.... 634 

The Passions W. Collins 634 

The Progress of Poesy T.Gray 636 

Songof the Fairies J. Lyly 637 

From "The Humble Bee" R. W. Emerson...638 

Alexander's Feast J. Dryden 639 

A Vision J. G. Percival 642 

The Fairies W. Allingham....642 

The Fairies T. Hood 644 

A Musical Instrument E. B. Browning. ..645 



Title. Author, Tagp. 

High Days and Holidays H. P. Spofford...605 

Solitude H. More 605 

Apostrophe to Sleep W. Shakspero 606 

Ode on Solitude A.Pope 606 

Song ; *' Busy, curious, thirs- 
ty fly." W. Oldys 606 

Sleep T. Dekker 607 

An Eastern Apologue A. Dobson 607 

The Shortness of Life ■ F. Quarles 607 

Sic Vita H.King 608 

Life A.L. Barbauld...608 

Life R. H. Wilde 608 

APsalmofLife H. W. Longfel- 
low 608 

Fate BretHarte 609 

Wisdom J. W. Von Goethe 609 

Unity of Nature A. Pope 609 

Hunian Life S. Rogers 610 

Man's Mortality S. Waste! 610 

From "Festus" P. J. Bailey 611 

The Voiceless O. W.Holmes.... 611 

Time W.Scott 611 

Melancholy Beaumont & Fletch- 
er 611 

Stanzas R. Southey 612 

Beauty Fades W.Drummond...612 

Old Age and Death E. Waller 612 

The Seasons of Life T. Parker 618 

Life W. Shakspere 613 

No Concealment L. H. Sigourney..613 

Middle Age Alexander Smith.614 

Hamlet's Soliloquy W. Shakspere.. ...615 

The Circle of Life"! G. Eliot 617 

Death's Final Conquest J. Shirley 617 

Elegv, Written in a Country 

Churchyard.. T.Gray 617 

Why Thus Longing? Harriet Win8low.619 

On a Skull Lord Byron 621 

Thanatopsis W. C. Bryant 621 

The Da3's That Are No 

More A.Tennyson 623 

Excelsior H. W. Longfel- 
low 623 

A Hundred Years to Come W. G. Brown 624 

CY. 

From "The Blessed Damoz- 

el" D. G. Rossetti 645 

The Fairy's Song W. Shakspere 646 

The Visit of St. Nicholas C. C. Moore 647 

Hymn to Diana. B. Jonson 647 

TheEveofSt. Agnes J.Keats 649 

The Bells E. A.Poe 654 

The Raven E. A. Poe 654 

"The Ancient Mariner" T.DeQuincey 659 

The Ancient Mariner S. T. Coleridge... 660 

Tam O'Shanter R. Burns 668 



CONTENTS. 



xvii 



^flT AND j4ujVlOR, 



7H,Ue. Author. Page. 

Faithless Nelly Gray T. Hood 673 

Eobin Hood and the CurtallAnonymous (16th 

Friar century) 674 

Wit the Flavour of the 

Mind S. Smith 676 

A Parental Ode to My Son.... T. Hood 677 

Genealogy of Humour J. Addison 678 

A Necessity Owen Meredith... 678 

Mv Daughter G. W. Cable 678 

The Land of Thus-and-So J.W.Riley 679 

The Fault of the Puppy M. Lewis ...679 

Pristine Proverbs Prepared 

for Precocious Pupils Anonymous 679 

"Birds of a feather flock to- 
gether" R. Southey 680 

Morning Meditations T. Hood 680 

Lines : " Frostie age, frostie 

age!" W. Irving 680 

Lines: "Thus Adam looked 
when from the garden 

driven" E.Young 681 

Belinda A. Pope 681 

Belinda's Toilet A.Pope 681 

The Courtin' J. R. Lowell 682 

Ballade of a Girl of Erudi- 
tion- A. Lang 683 

The Tender Heart H. G. Cone 683 

My Aunt O.W.Holmes 683 

The Belle of the Bali-Room... W. M. Praed 684 

A Musical Box W. W. Story 685 

Sancho Panza's Decisions M. de Cervantes.. 686 

Nobody Anonymous 689 

Fishing Anonymous 689 

The Devil Anonvmous 689 





Title. Author. Page. 

Sorrows of Werther W.M.Thackeray 690 

A Tired Woman's Epitaph... J. Payne 690 

Address to an Egyptian 

Mummy H. Smith 692 

Answer of the Mummy Anonymous 693 

Thievery W. Shakspere 694 

Doubles T. Hood 694 

He Never Knowed Anonymous 696 

The Birth of Green Erin Anonymous 696 

Deafness T. Hood 697 

The Chinese Language G. W. Cooke 697 

Katharine and Petruchio W. Shakspere 697 

The New Church Organ W. Carleton 699 

The Learning of Hudibras S. Butler 700 

The Jackdaw of Rheims R. H. Barham 701 

Old Grimes is Dead A. G. Greene 704 

The Victim of Frauds B. Harte 704 

The Paradise of Progress A. Lang 706 

The One Gray Hair W. S. Landor 706 

The Pilgrims and the Peas ....J. Wolcot 706 

Pm Growing Old J. G. Saxe 707 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks... J. R. Lowell 708 

The Sea Anonymous 709 

Plain Language from Truth- 
ful James B. Harte.. 710 

The Cure's Progress A. Dobson 710 

The Birth of St. Patrick S. Lover 711 

A Literary Curiosity 712 

Index of First Lines 713 

Author's Index 721 

Wild-Flowers M, K. Davis Fly 

Leaf 

Thought-Flowers M. K. Davis.. .Cover 

Lining 




Title. Artist Engrave?'. Page. 

Nature and Song Cover lining 

Nature and Books H. G. Glindoni Fly leaf 

Vignette Richardson Fly leaf 

Presentation Fly leaf 

Statue of "Poetry" (Grand Opera House, Paris) Fly leaf 

Portrait Henry W. Longfellow Frontispiece 

Group of Authors Title page 

Vignette Alfred Fredericks A. Bobbett Copyright 

Head Piece, "Preface" v 

Tail Piece, "Preface" Miss Ashley Shayler vi 

Head Piece, " Contents" vii 

Tail Piece, "Contents " F. M. Wilson Cassell xvii 

Head Piece, "Illustrations" E. Wagner xviii 

Tail Piece, "Illustrations" Hooper Cassell xxiii 

Head Piece, "Portraits" Hatherell Cassell xxiv 

Tail Piece, "Portraits" J. F. Cropsey, N. A Bobbett & Hooper xxv 

Head Piece, "Autographs" Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper xxvi 



Joy a]md ^ori^ow. 



"Good news or evil, sunshine or shadow " Charles Gregory M. Klinkicht 28 

" Sunlight and shade; rich gold that dullsto grey" 29 

"Down the dimpled greensward dancing" Fitz-August Kaulbach 32 

" And her feet she had been dipping" M. L. Gow O. L. Lacour 34 

"But wot you what? the youth was going" H. M. Paget J. Swain ,„»,.37 

"Maiden, with the meek brown eyes " W. Hatherell Cassell 42 

" And the dream I spun was so lengthy " H. W. Cutte oo„o,o45 

"Her book of the favorite poet unheeded at her 

side" B. Vautier »o„.„o„.„.47 

" They gi'ed him niy hand, but my heart was at the 

sea" " F. Dadd J. Swain, 49 

"I, nearer to the waj'side'inn " F. O. C. Parley, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 52 

"Break, break, break" A. Barraud ....Cassell 56 

" Blessings on thee, little man" 58 

"Sleep on, baby on the floor" W. J. Hennessy, N. A. .. Bobbett & Hooper 59 

"I've said my 'seven times' over and over" E. J.Whitney Hayes 61 

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one 

lover" Childe Hassam Cowee 63 

" O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daugh- 
ters" 64 

Rip's PvETURN TO ms Home John S. Davis 0. Maurand 68 

Rip's Reception by the Villagers » ,.„„,„„, ;...,.. c»„„,....,-«70 



ILLUSTRATIONS. xix 

Title. Artist. Engraver. Page. 

"The horrible conceit of death and night" Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 74 

"A woman sat in unwomanly rags" Hoppin Anthony 76 

"A maiden there lived whom you may know" D.Huntington,Pres.N. A. Bobbett & Hooper 81 

The Blind Milton Dictating " Paradise Lost " 

TO HIS Daughters Michael Munkacsy F. Meaulle 84 

"She moved where Lindis wandereth " 86 

"'The old sea wall,' he cried, « is downe' " W. Small J. Swain 89 

"The western wind was wild and dank with foam"...Macdonough Anthony 93 

" To her grave beside the sea" Macdonough Cox 93 

"Three corpses lay out on the shining sands" T. Hovenden Kilburn 96 

"Not there! where, then, is he?" Dalziel 100 

" Softly woo away her breath" Lisbeth B. Humphrey. . .Gr. Morisetti 103 

" Sweet spring, thou turns't with all thy goodly 

train" James Hart, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 105 

"One more unfortunate, weary of breath" Eytinge Anthony 108 

"Started from bed and struck herself a light" Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 118 

"From sheds new-roof d with Carara." Fenn , Harley 119 

Tailpiece A. Zick 120 



7hE ^ffECTIONg. 



"Behind us swept past reed and willow" Alice Havers 122 

Head Piece 123 

"Oh, mother's love is glorifying!" W. J. Hennessy, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 126 

"Love thy mother, little one!" Eugene Klimsch G. Hever & Kirmk 128 

"Best, rest, on mother's breast!" Macdonough Langridge 130 

"Tones that never thence depart" W. H. Gore Cassell 132 

" For I know that the angels are whispering to 

thee" Carl Marr 134 

" She laughs; * Why look you so slyly at me ? ' " H. M. Paget J, Swain 138 

" I read it, my letter, my letter, as I loitered by the 

sea" T.&E. Taylor 141 

"No charm so dear as home and friends around 

us" ChildeHassam Latham 143 

"What is the greatest bliss?" : N. Waterman Bobbett & Hooper 145 

"In short, sir, 'the belle of the season'" J. Ballavoine 147 

"Mark how o'er ocean's breast" J. F, Kensett, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 149 

" The heavens were bright, and all the earth was 

fair" Davison Knowles 152 

"The careless days of peace and pleasure" F. Dicksee M. Klinkicht 155 

"By hood and tippet sheltered sweet" Miss Hallock W. J. Linton 175 

"In hosts the lilies, white and large" W. Hatherell Cassell 160 

" Nestle closely, little hand" M.L. Gow 162 

"When stars are in the quiet skies" 164 

"Drink to me only with thine eyes" Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 169 

"Her father loved me; oft invited me" Charles Becker O. Koth 170 

"Bright, O bright Fedalma!" J. Salles M. Weber 174 

" Gin a body kiss a body " 183 

"With modest eyes downcast" A. F. Bellows, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 186 

" Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more" 188 

"Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air !" M'me Alex. Enault ...Schoelch 191 

"And she fled to the forest to hear a love tale". Alfred Fredericks Bobbett &Hooper 193 

"Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds " E. Gignoux, N. A Bobbett &Hooper 195 

" She leant against the armed man" Fernand H. Lungren Latham 196 

"I saw two clouds at morning" C. C. Griswold W. J. Linton 199 

"Now we maun totter down, John"..... F. Dadd , J. Swain., ,.,... 200 



XX LIST OF ILLUSTRATION'S. 

Title. Artist Engraver. Page. 

"There's naething binds my puir auld heart" H. M. Paget J. Swain 201 

Tail Piece A. Zick Bong & Honemann ....202 



l^Ej.iqiojM. 



" But peaceful was the night wherein the Prince of 

Light"..... R. Bong A. Zick 204 

Head Piece E. Wagner 205 

" When such music sweet" -..R. Bong A. Zick -..206 

" But see, the Virgin blest" 208 

"From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood"H. Weir W. Meason 212 

"The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes" ...William Hart, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 216 

"Th* expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher 

through " Chapman Filmer 217 

" The priest-like father reads the sacred page" Chapman Filmer 219 

"The youngling cottagers retire to rest" Chapman Filmer 220 

" But none of the ransomed ever knew" Robert Leins ..222 

" Xow came still evening on, and twilight gray " C. Parsons Bobbett & Hooper 227 

"Its waves are kneeling on the strand" Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 228 

" Far in a wild, unknown to public view" Y. Nehlig, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 239 

" When the grave household round his hall repair" Gr. G. Kilburne W. I. Mossos 241 

" Soon as the evening shades prevail" J. McEntee, N. A... Bobbett & Hooper 248 

" Hark, how the birds do sing" 253 

Tail Piece H. Catenacci 254 



p/ggIOJN| A^^ID y\.CTIOJM. 



"With his white hair unbonneted the stout old 

sheriff comes" E. Crofts, A. R. A. ^ 256 

Head Piece E. Crofts, A. R. A. 257 

" We buried him darkly at dead of night" Charles Gregory A. Bellenger 263 

"Robed in the sable garb of woe" V. Nehlig, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 268 

"'Make way for liberty ! ' he cried" Y. Nehlig, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 276 

"Press where you see my white plume shine amidst 

the ranks of war " Rochling G. Hever & Kirmk 282 

"At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun" Henry Sandham Kilburn 287 

" And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell" 290 

" The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd" S. Colman, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 292 

" These heavy walls to me had grown a hermitage" 294 

Tailpiece 296 



^ZlAUTY. 



"Beauty shall glide along, circled by song" Tidmarsh 298 

" Down in yon summer vale, where the rill flows" 

—Head Piece E.Wagner 299 

" First, lusty Spring all dight in leaves and flowers " Wilham Hart, K A Bobbett & Hooper 301 

"Then came the iolly Sommer, being dight" William Hart, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 301 

"Then came the Autumne all in yellow clad" William Hart, K A Bobbett & Hooper 301 

" Lastly came Winter clothed all in frize" William Hart, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 302 

" Yet what her lavish hand hath spilled remains". ..E. Giacomelli. •• '• 303 

" In eddying course when leaves began to fly" Childe Hassam A. Wood 305 

" The mild N"ov('mber comes at last" ". J. R. Brevoort, K. A Bobbett & Hooper 309 

"But the hurrying host that flew between" 310 

" From hill to dale, still more and more astray" - 312 

" Cottage and field alike concealed " 313 

"When daffodils begin to peer" 315 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. xxi 

'ntle. Artist. Engraver, Page. 

" The buck in brake his winter coat he flings" James Hart, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 317 

"There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly" 318 

"Month of little hands with daisies" Butterworth & Heath.. 319 

"Out of the city, far away " M.L. Gow Cassell 321 

" They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick 

leafiness to bowers" Fernand H. Lungren Cowee 323 

'^Kow to the cooling shades the cows retreat '^ 325 

Flowers Mrs. Staples Cassell 326 

" The panting cattle in the river stand" M. Waterman Bobbett & Hooper 328 

" And the gentle summer rain" Hollidge 330 

" Innocence shines in the lily's bell" J. A. Hows Bobbett & Hooper 334 

" For the rose, ho ! the rose is the eye of the flow- 
ers" 337 

Blossoms 339 

" Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young" A. D. Shattuck, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 342 

" See how the orient dew" Miss Mary A. Lathburg...Closson 343 

Daffodils 346 

" And where the flowers of Paradise unfold" 348 

" 'Come up, come up,' they seem to say" 350 

"Robert of Lincoln is telling his name" 353 

"But all night long" J. A. Hows,K A Bobbett & Hooper 354 

" There is a Power whose care" C. Parsons Bobbett & Hooper 355 

" Sweet warblers of the sunny hours" Andrew 357 

"Higher still aud higher" A. F. Elwes Moss 358 

" Clear and cool, clear and cool" 361 

" Your murmurs bring the pleasant breath" C. Maurand 364 

" Glorious fountain ! Let my heart be" J. D. Smillie ...Bobbett & Hooper 366 

" Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean— roll!" M. F. H. DeHaas Bobbett & Hooper 368 

" Up signal then, and let us hail" C. T. Dix Bobbett & Hooper 369 

"Lol Night's barbaric Khans" DeHaas 372 

" Thy troops of white-maned racers racing to the 

goal" C.Roberts 374 

"Throw up the window! 'Tis a morn for life" J. D. Smillie Bobbett & Hooper ....,377 

Romeo and Juliet , Hermann Kaulbach P. Krey 380 

" The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews"....G. H. Smillie Bobbett &Hooper 382 

"But who the melodies of morn can tell!" G. H. Smillie Bobbett & Hooper 383 

" The morning hath not lost her virgin blush" A. F. Bellows, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 384 

"The splendor falls on castle walls" Fenn 385 

" A woman's wistful eyes look out across the hills "..G. Trench 386 

Night ". S. Colman, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 389 

"The magic moon is breaking" H. Brinkraann 392 

" How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child- 
hood " A. D. Shattuck K A Bobbett & Hooper 398 

Tail Piece , ^ 404 



pEI^30N3 yVJND j!^HARACTER3. 



QueEk Catherine's Defense 406 

Head Piece W. Small 407 

" She milked into a wooden pail" 408 

"Red Riding Hood, the darling" P. Meyerheim 410 

" Under a spreading chestnut tree" F. O. C. Darley, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 415 

" With what free growth the elm and plane" A. Bierstadt, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 419 

"Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team" J. D. Smillie Bobbett & Hooper. . ..421 

" A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name" W. J. Hennessy, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 425 

"And, sad to see her sorrowful constniint" , .Fernand H. Lungren Cowee 431 

2 



xxii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Title. Artist. Engrave. Page. 

"Wei nine and twenty in a compagnie" Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 432 

"The pavement stones resound" W. J. Hennessy, N. A Anthony 436 

Cleopatra in Her Barge Hans Makart K. Bong 436 

" Jennie kissed me when we met" Hoppin Bobbett & Hooper 440 

"Look at me with thy hirge brown eyes" E. J. Whitney Hayes 442 

"You meaner beauties of the night" S. Colman,N. A .-.Bobbett & Hooper 452 

Antony's Oration over Cesar's Dead Body" G. E. V. Berlepsch 456 

Tail Piece Alfred Fredericks Bobbett «& Hooper 462 



?: 



XACEg. 

Venice, the Queen of the Adriatic 464 

" O, ye dales of Tyne!" Head Piece S. Colman, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 465 

Niagara F. E. Church, K A Bobbett & Hooper 469 

"Breezes of the South, have ye fanned" W. Whittredge, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 472 

" But calm in the distance the great hills rose" 476 

"Brown-pillared groves and green-arched alleys" S. K. Gifford, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 478 

"Pleasant were many scenes" J. A. Hows Bobbett & Hooper 480 

"The stately homes of England" 484 

"For to the hills has Freedom ever clung" R. S. Gifford, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 485 

" And all the village train, from labor free" W. Whittredge, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 487 

" I see the rabbit upward bound" 494 

" Among the woods and o'er the pathless rocks" A. B. Durand, N. A ....Bobbett & Hooper 496 

" Father, thy hand hath reared these venerable col- 
umns" Bullen Bullen 498 

The ALHAiiBRA 500 

Eton College, from the River 502 

"Chicago vanished in a cloud" E. Whymper E. Whymper 506 

" I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs" E. Whymper E. Whj^mper 512 

" One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed" Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 521 



\' 



EfLE CTIOJM. 

Morning Meditations C. Karger 624 

" Upon the sadness of the sea" — Head Piece J. A. Suydam, N. A Bobbett & Hooper 525 

" Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget" 526 

" The light of the bright world dies" 529 

"Zephyr, with Aurora playing" 535 

" Where throngs of knights and barons bold" 536 

"Come pensive nun, devout and pure" ..Eastman Johnson, N. A. ..Bobbett & Hooper 537 

"Where the rude ax with heaved stroke" 538 

" There let the pealing organ blow" 539 

" A beautiful and happy girl" 544 

" Companionship with Books 552 

"For I did not bring home the river and sky" A. Barraud O. L. Lacour 572 

Joyous Youth H. P. Gray, V. P. N. A.. .Bobbett & Hooper 581 

"The earth and every common sight" W. St. John Harper Schoelch 586 

" And by the vision splendid" Childe Hassam Cowee ...588 

The Troubles of Childhood Ferdinand Padien Walla 594 

" There is a silver lining to every cloud " 602 

" A weaver sat one day at his loom" W. T. Smedlej^ Cowee 604 

End-Piece Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hoooer 624 

"pAJMCY. 

Whisperings of Fancy 626 

" It was a strange and lovely sight" — Head-Piece... Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 627 

Ferdinand and Ariel Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 634 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



XXlll 



Page. 
...'640 
...641 
...643 



Title. Artist. Engraver. 

"'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won" Y. Nehlig, N. A Bobbett & Hooper, 

"At last divine Cecilia came" Rafael Santi d'Urbino , 

"They stole little Bridget" Bellew Cox 

"Oh, these be Fancy's revelers by .night! " Mrs. Jessie Curtis Shep- 
herd 644 

"I do wander everywhere"... 646 

"Full on the casement shone the wintry moon" Fernand H. Lungren Cowee 561 

"On the bat's back I do fly" 667 

Tail Piece Alfred Fredericks Bobbett & Hooper 670 



¥/^IT y\ND j4uM0P^, 



" Robin Hood took the friar on his back" 672 

"The army surgeon made him limbs" — ^Head- 
Piece...." W. Ralston W. I. Mossos 673 

" And when she saw his wooden legs" , W. Ralston W. I. Mossos 674 

"I know her, the thing of laces, and silk" Miss Ledyard MacDonald 686 

Katharine an^d Petrtjchio A. von Grundherr Kuesing 698 

" They turn up the rugs — they examine the mugs" W. Ralston W. I. Mossos 702 

"Sothey canonized him by the name of Jim Crow" W. Ralston W. I. Mossos 704 

Tail Piece 712 

Head Piece, "Index of First Lines" T.Griffiths Cassell 713 

Tail Piece, "Index of First Lines" Miss Slader Cassell 720 

Head Piece, "Authors' Index" .'721 

Tail Piece, "Author's Index" J. Staples 744 

Wild-Flowters Fly Leaf 

Thought-Flowers Coyer Lining 




Anne Hathaway's Cottage. 
{See Page 4SS.) 




Addison, Joseph 567 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey 31 

Arnold, Matthew 575 

Bacon, Sir Francis 600 

Bailey, Philip James 532 

Beaumont, Francis o 39 

Browning, Elizabeth Barkett 415 

Browning, Eobert 136 

Bryant, "William Cullen 622 

BuLWER, Edward, Lord Lytton 178 

Burns, Kobert 224 

Byron, Lord George Gordon" 620 

Cable, George W 678 

Campbell, Thomas 190 

Carleton, Will H 700 

Carlyle, Thomas 598 

Cary, Alice 401 

Gary, Phcebe 231 

Chaucer, Geoffrey. 438 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 198 

CowPER, William 367 

De Quincey, Thomas 659 

Dickens, Charles 341 

Dobson, Austin 711 

Drummond, William 612 

Dryden, John ...214 

Eliot, George, (Marian Evans Cross) 616 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo 584 

Fletcher, John 39 

Gallagher, William D 307 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. 609 

Goldsmith, Oliver 491 

Gray, Thomas 637 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene 447 

Harte, (Francis) Bret 705 

Hawthorne, Kathaniel 518 

Hayne, Paul Hamilton 375 

Heber, Eeginald ; 215 

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea 485 

Herbert, George 252 

Hogg, James 252 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert 571 

Holmes, Oliyeb Wendei-l 395 



Hood, Thomas 695 

Howe, Julia Ward 275 

HowELLs, William Dean 151 

Hugo, Victor 246 

Hunt, Leigh 234 

Ingelow, Jean 65 

Irving, Washington 474 

Jackson, Helen 562 

Johnson, Samuel 459 

JoNSON, Ben 648 

Keats, John 79 

Kingsley, Charles 362 

Lamb, Charles 564 

Landor, Walter Savage 706 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. Frontis'piece. 

Lowell, James Russell 709 

Lytton, Edward Robert Blt.wer-Lytton, 

Earl (Owen Meredith) 156 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Lord 284 

Marston, Philip Bourke 443 

Massey, Gerald 110 

Miller, Joaquin 167 

Milton, John 546 

Montgomery, Jatvies 444 

Moore, Thomas 403 

More, Hannah 606 

Morris, George P 400 

Motherwell, William 166 

Payne, John Hoavard 466 

Percival, James Gates 642 

PoE, Edgar Allan ...657 

Pope, Alexander 232 

pRAED, Winthrop Mackworth 685 

Prentice, George Dent^ison 99 

Procter, Bryan Waller ("Barry Corn- 
wall") 259 

Raleigh, Sir Walter 189 

Read, Thomas Buchanan 367 

Rogers, Samuel 461 

RusKiN, John 114 

Ryan, Abram J 250 

Saxe, John Godfrey 708 

Schiller, Johann Frl&prich von 591 



POETEAITS. 



XXV 



Scott, Sir "Walter 

ShAKSPERE, WlLLIAil 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe , 

Sheridan, Kichard Brinsley 

Sidney, Sir Philip 

SiGOURNEY, LyDIA HiINTLEY 

Smith, Alexander 

Smith, Sydney 

SouTHEY, Robert 

Spenser, Edmund 

Stoddard, Richard Henry 

Suckling, Sir John 

Swinburne, Charles Algernon., 



558 Taylor, Bayard 402 

.554 Tennyson, Lord Alfred 54 

.308 Thackeray, William Makepeace 691 

.150 Thomson, James 312 

.522 Thoreau, Henry D 530 

.614 TucKERMAN, Henry Theodore 55 

.615 Welby, Amelia B 393 

.677 "White, Henry Kirke 251 

.177 Whittier, John Greenleaf 210 

.429 Willis, Nathaniel Parker 124 

.153 WofTER, William 116 

.173 Wordsworth, William 446 

.578 Young, Edward.. 681 





Browning, Elizabeth Bahrett 

Browning, Robert 

Bryant, William Cullen 

Burns, Robert 

Carleton, Will H 

Carlyle, Thomas 

Coleridge, Samttel Taylor 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo 

Gray, Thomas 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene 

Harte, (Francis) Bret 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert (" Timothy Titcomb") 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell 

Hood, Thomas 

Hunt, Leigh 

Ingelow, Jean 

Keats, John 

KiNGSLEY, Charles 

Lamb, Charles 

LOXGFELLOAY, HeNRY W 

Lowell, James Russell 

Miller, Joaquin 

Milton, John 

Montgomery, James 

Moore, Thomas 

Payne, John Howard 

PoE, Edgar Allan 

Procter, Bryan Waller (Barry Cornwall) 

Saxe, John Godfrey 

Scott, Sir Walter 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 

Smith, S. F 

Southey, Robert 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence 

Stoddard, Richard Henry 

Taylor, Bayard 

Tennyson, Alfred 

Thackeray, William Makepeace 

Whittier, John Greenleaf 

Willis, Nathauiel Parker , 



From "The Sword of Castruccio Castrucani "...273 
From " How We Brought the Good News from 

Ghent to Aix." 288 

From "The Planting of the Apple Tree" 356 

" Bruce's Address " 260 

From "Rifts in the Cloud" 238 

From "Past and Present" (translated from 

Goethe) 527 

From " Psyche" 557 

From "The Humble Bee" 638 

From the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard".. ..619 
From "On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake" 448 

"The Mountain Heartsease" 232 

"I have been a happy man" 112 

"Wanted!" 412 

From "The Last Leaf". 434 

From "The Song of the Shirt" 77 

From " Abou Ben Adhem" 235 

From "Supper at the Mill" 181 

"The wonders of all-ruling Providence" 213 

From "The sands of Dee" 92 

From "The Self-Enchanted" 394 

From "The Day is Done" 148 

"What figure more immovably august" 420 

"Rome" 509 

From " The Masque of Comus" 547 

"Hail the High, the Holy One " 245 

"Filled with balm the gale sighs on" 184 

"Home, Sweet Home!" 467 

"Alone" 40 

From "The Sea" 371 

''Spes est Vates" 570 

From "Marmion" 279 

From the Dedication to " The Revolt of Islam " 140 

From "America" 266 

"Birds of a feather flock together " 680 

.From " The Doorstep " 152 

" Thoughts " 548 

From " The Song of the Camp " 159 

From "The Princess" 36 

," Sorrows of Werther" 690 

From "Miriam" 229 

From "Unseen Spirits".; 423 




Good news or evil, sunshine or shadow — 
What is the message the postman bore?" 




Sunlight and Shade; rich gold that dulls to 
grey ; 
So runs the tale of life from day to day.' 



poEMp Of Joy and ^oi^f^ow. 



GOOD MEWS, OB BAD? 

tOOD news or evil, sunshine or shadow — 
What is the message the postman bore, 
Meeting a lassie midway in the meadow, 

Bringing a letter from distant shore ? 
" Wounded to death !" — so ran the letter — 

"Wounded to death in the front of the fray!" 
Dying right nobly surely is better 

Than living to bask in life's sunniest ray ! 
" Wounded to death ! — Aye, almost to dying, 
But the great God gave back the life that 
seemed lost. 
And even now while the maiden was sighing. 
The far-stretching leagues of the ocean 
were crossed ; 
And just when the sky seemed most cloudy 
and dreary, 
And all was as dark as a dull autumn day. 
The soldier was back with his own little 
dearie, 
And the sunshine burst forth with a 
summer ray. George Weathekly. 



SUJ^LIGHT AJYD SHADE. 



^UNLIGHT and Shade; rich gold that 
)^ dulls to grey ; 
The fairest summer morn, radiant with 

light, 
Succeeded by the gloomiest Winter night— 
So runs the tale of Life from day to day. 
And no man knows when, ranked in close ar- 
ray. 
The thick black clouds will hide the sun 

from sight. 
And darken all that has been glad and 
bright. 
And make Life for awhile a shadowed way. 
'Mid Sun and Shadow, happiness and woe, 
The years roll on, each bringing its due 

share 
Of pure unruffled joy, and stormy care ; 
And yet, if men will only have it so. 
The dark days will be short, and every one 
Will have his long fair summer day of sun ! 
George Weatherly. 



30 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



U.XDER MY WIJVDOW. 

fNDER my window, under my window, 
All in the midsummer weather. 
Three little girls, with fluttering curls. 

Flit to and fro together I 
There's Belle with her bonnet of satin sheen. 
And Maude with her mantle of silver-green. 
And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window. 

Leaning stealthily over. 
Merry and clear, the voice I hear 

Of each glad-hearted rover. 
Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses. 
And Maude and Belle twine wreaths and 
posies, 

As merry as bees in clover. 

Under my window, under my window 
In the blue midsummer weather. 

Stealing slow, on a hushed tip-toe, 
I catch them all together ! 

Belle with her bonnet of satin sheen, 

And Maude with her mantle of silver-green, 
And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window. 
And off through the orchard closes ; 

While Maude she flouts and Belle she pouts, 
They scamper and drop their posies ; 

But dear little Kate takes naught amiss. 

And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss. 
And I give her all my roses. 

Thomas Westwood. 



LITTLE BELL. 

flPED the blackbird on the beechwood 
spray, 
" Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 

What's your name ?" quoth he ; 
" What's your name ? Oh, stop, and straight 

unfold. 
Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold ?" 
" Little BeU," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, 
Tossing aside her gleaming golden locks ; 

" Bonny bird," quoth she, 
" Sing me your best song before I go." 
" Here's the very finest song I know, 

Little Bell," said he. 

And the blackbird piped ; you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird ; 



Full of quips and wiles, 
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, 
All for love of that sweet face below, 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while the bonny bird did pour 
His full heart freely o'er and o'er 

'Neath the morning skies. 
In the little childish heart below. 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow. 
And shine forth in happy overflow, 

From the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the 

glade ; 
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, 

And from out the tree 
Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear; 
While bold blackbird piped that all might 
hear; 
" Little BeU," piped he. 

Little BeU sat down amid the fern ; 

" Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return ; 

Bring me nuts," quoth she. 
Up away the frisky squirrel hies. 
Golden woodlights glancing in his eyes. 

And adown the tree 
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 
In the little lap dropped one by one ; 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see such fun ! 

" Happy BeU ;" pipes he. 

Little BeU looked up and down the glade ; 
" Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid. 

Come and share with me :" 
Down came squirrel eager for his fare ; 
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare ; 
Little BeU gave each his honest share, 

Ah, the merry three I 

And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough 
again, 

'Neath the morning skies. 
In the little childish heart below 
AU the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine out in happy overflow 

From her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day. 
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray ; 

Very calm and clear 
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, 
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 

Paused awhile to hear. 
" What good child is this," the angel said, 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORROW. 



31 



" That with happy heart beside her bed 

Prays so lovingly ?" 
Low and soft, oh, very low and soft, 
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, 

" Bell, dear Bell," crooned he. 

" Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
Murmured, '"God doth bless with angels' care; 

Child, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, 
Shall w'atch around and leave good gifts be- 
hind, 
Little Bell, for thee !" 

Thomas West wood. 



And thus came dainty Babie Bell 
Into this world of ours. 

She came, and brought delicious May : 
The swallows built beneath the eaves ; 
Like sunlight in and out the leaves. 
The robins went, the livelong day. 
The lily swung its noiseless bell. 
And o'er the porch the trembling vine 
Seemed bursting with its veins of wine. 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! 
Oh, earth was full of singing birds 

And opening Spring-tide flowers, 
When the dainty Babie Bell 
Came to this world of ours ! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



BABIE BELL'S COMIJYG. 

(From ''The Ballad of Babie BeU." ) 

T|JAVE you not heard the poets tell 
SL How came the dainty Babie Bell 

Into this world of ours ? 
The gates of heaven were left ajar ; 

With folded hands and dreamy eyes 

Wandering out of Paradise, 
She saw this planet, like a star, 
Hung in the glistening depths of even ; 

Its bridges running to and fro. 

O'er which the white-winged angels go. 
Bearing the holy dead to heaven : 
She touched a bridge of flowers, those feet 

So light, they did not bend the bells 

Of the celestial asphodels ; 
They fell like dew upon the flowers : 
Then all the air grew strangely sweet ; 




Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



COMPAMIOJ^SHIP WITH CEILBREK. 

(From "Little Annie's Ramble" in "Twice-Told Tales.") 

WEET has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, throughout my ramble with little 
Annie ! Say not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, a bab- 
ble of childish talk, and a reverie of childish imaginations about topics unworthy of a 
grown man's notice. Has it been merely this ? Not so ; not so. They are not truly 
wise who would afiirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of aged men, so is 
our moral nature revived by their free and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy 
mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence on 
us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost forgotten, and 
our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as yesterday ; when life settles darkly down 
upon us, and w^e doubt whether to call ourselves young any more, then it is good to steal 
away from the society of bearded men, and even of gentler women, and spend an hour or two 
with children. After drinking from those fountains of still fresh existence, we shall return 
into the crowd, as I do now, to struggle onward and do our part in life, perhaps as fervently 
as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. All 
this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie ! 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 



32 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 




"Down the dimpled greensward dancing." 

THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. 



^^OWN the dimpled greensward dancing, 
11/ Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy ; 
Bud-lipped boys and girls advancing, 
Love's irregular little levy. 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, 
How they glimmer, how they quiver I 



Sparkling one another after, 
Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces. 
Flushed with joy's ethereal spirit, 

Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At Love's self and do not fear it. 

George Darley. 



POEMS OF JOY A:N^D SORROW. 
MOTHER J^ATURE. 



MOW like a tender mother, with loving 
thoughts beguiled, 
Fond Nature seems to lull to rest each faint 

and weary child ! 
Drawing the curtain tenderly, affectionate 
and mild. 

Hark to the gentle lullaby, that through the 

trees is creeping ! 
Those sleepy trees that nod their heads, ere 

the moon as yet comes peeping, 
Like a tender nurse, to see if all her little ones 

are sleeping. 

One little fluttering bird, like a child in a 

dream of pain, 
Has chirped and started up, then nestled 

down again. 
Oh, a child and a bird, as they sink to rest, are 

as like as any twain. 

Charlotte Yoitng. 



THE MERRY HEART. 

WOULD not from the wise require 
The lumber of their learned lore ; 
Nor would I from the rich desire 

A single counter of their store ; 
For I have ease and I have health. 

And I have spirits light as air, 
And more than wisdom, more than wealth, 

A merry heart that laughs at care. 



Like other mortals of my kind, 

I've struggled for Dame Fortune's favor ; 
And sometimes have been half inclined 

To rate her for her ill behavior ; 
But life was short ; I thought it folly 

To lose its moments in despair, 
So slipped aside from melancholy. 

With merry heart that laughed at care. 

So now, from idle wishes clear, 

I make the good I may not find ; 
Adown the stream I gently steer. 

And shift my sail with every wind ; 
And half by nature, half by reason. 

Can still, with pliant heart prepare 
The mind, attuned to every season, 

The merry heart that laughs at care. 

Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream, 
Ye social feeling of the mind ; 



Give, sometimes give your sunny gleam, 
And let the rest good-humor find ; 

Yes, let me hail, and welcome give 
To every joy my lot may share. 

And pleased and pleasing let me live. 
With merry heart that laughs at care. 

Henry Hart Miliman. 



THE ROMAJVCE OF THE SWAJV'S 
JVEST. 

If ITTLE Ellie sits alone . 
JIM. 'Mid the beeches of a meadow 
By a stream-side on the grass. 
And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow 
On her shining hair and face. 

She has thrown her bonnet by. 

And her feet she has been dipping, 

In the shallow w^ater's flow. 

Now she holds them nakedly 

In her hands all sleek and dripping, 

While she rocketh to and fro. 

Little Ellie sits alone. 
And the smile she softly uses 

Fills the silence like a speech, 
While she thinks what shall be done, — 
And the sweetest pleasure chooses 
For her future w^ithin reach. 

Little Ellie in her smile 
Chooses — " I will have a lover, 
Riding on a steed of steeds ! 
He shall love me without guile. 
And to him I will discover 

The swan's nest among the reeds. 

" And the steed shall be red-roan. 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath. 
And the lute he plays upon 
Shall strike ladies into trouble. 

As his sword strikes men to death. 

" And the steed it shall be shod, 
All in silver, housed in azure. 

And the mane shall swim the wind. 
And the hoofs along the sod 
Shall flash onward and keep measure 
Till the shepherds look behind. 



34 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



" But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides in. 
When he gazes in my face, 
He will say — ' O Love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides in, 
And I kneel here for thy grace !' 



" Then, fly, then he shall kneel low. 
With the red-roan steed anear bim. 
Which shall seem to under- 
stand, 
Till I answer — 'Rise and ero' 



I will utter, and dissemble — 

Light to-morrow with to-day ! 

" Then he'll ride among the hills. 
To the wide world past the river, 
There to put away all wrong ; 
To make straight distorted wills, 




m&'^d 



And lier feet she had been dipping 
In the shallow water's tlow." 



For the world must love and fear him 
Whom I gift with heart and hand. 

" Then he will arise so pale, 
I shall feel my own lips tremble 
With a yes I must not say : 
Nathless maiden-brave, * Farewell,' 



And to empty the broad quiver 
Which the wicked bear along. 

" Three times shall a young foot-page 
Swim the stream and climb the mountain, 
And kneel down beside my feet — 
* Lo, my master sends this gage, 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



35 



Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 

What wilt thou exchange for it ?' 

"And the first time I will send 
A white rose-bud for a guerdon, — 
And the second time, a glove ; 
But the third time — I may bend 
From my pride, and answer — ' Pardon, 
If he comes to take my love.' 

" Then the young foot-page will run — 
Then my lover will ride faster. 
Till he kneeleth at my knee : 
' I am a dulse's eldest son ! 
Thousand serfs do call me master, — 
But, O Love, I love but thee !' 

" He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then, and lead me as a lover 

Through the crowds that praise his 
deeds ; 
And, when soul-tied by one troth, 
Unto him I will discover 

That swan's nest among the reeds." 

Little EUie, with her smile 
Kot yet ended, rose up gaily ; 

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe. 
And went homeward, round a mile. 
Just to see, as she did daily. 

What more eggs were with the two. 

Pushing through the elm-tree Copse, 
Winding up the stream, ligiit-hearted, 
Where the osier pathway leads — 
Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. 
Lo, the wild swan had deserted — 
And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 

EUie went home sad and slow. 
If she found the lover ever, 

With his red-roan steed of steeds. 
Sooth, I know not! but I know 
She could never show him — never. 
That swan's nest among the reeds. 

Elizabeth Barkett Beowxixg. 



sojYxet to sleep. 

fARE-CHAEMER Sleep, son of the sable 
Night, 
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, 
Relieve my anguish, and restore the light, 
With dark forgetting of my care, return. 

And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-advised youth ; 
Jj^t waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 



Without the torments of the night's untruth. 

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, 
To model forth the passions of to-morrow ; 

Never let the rising sun prove you liars. 
To add more grief, to aggravate my sorrow. 
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 

Samuel Daniel. 



'SOME MURMUR WHEJf THEIR 
SkY IS CLEAR." 

^OME murmur when their sky is clear 
j^ And wholly bright to view. 
If one small speck of dark appear 
In their great heaven of blue. 

And some with thankful love are filled, 

If but one streak of light. 
One ray of God's good mercy gild 

The darkness of their night. 

In palaces are hearts that ask. 

In discontent and pride. 
Why life is such a dreary task. 

And aU good things denied ? 

And hearts in poorest huts admire 

How love has in their aid 
(Love that not ever seems to tire) 

Such rich provisions made. 

Richard Chevexix Trench. 



SOJY^^ET. 

T^? IFE, joy and splendor with the year awake, 
l@C The young Spring smiles on Winter pass- 
ed away ; 
The air is balmy with the coming May, 
A bridal music rings from bush and brake. 
All tilings the glory of the time partake ; 
I would be bright and joyous even as they. 
But tearful memory dims the golden day ; 
The light glares sickly, w^hile this heart must 

ache 
For eyes long closed, that fondly turned to 
mine. 
And voices dear forever dumb to me ; 
Yet, as the warm wind murmurs in the pine, 
SoiTOW grows mild and sufferance less sore ; 
I hear soft whispers from the unseen shore, 
With promise of eternal Spring to be. 

Anonymous, 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 
FROM " THE PRIJfCESSr 



44>^^ (^ ^^ 









^Oi 




THE HOUSE OF CLAY. 

^MHERE was a house — a house of clay 
P Wherein the inmate sang all day, 
Merry and poor. 
For Hope sat likewise heart to heart, 

Fond and kind — fond and kind, 
Vowing he never would depart — 

Till all at once he changed his mind — 
" Sweetheart, good-hy !" he slipped away, 
And shut the door. 

But Love came past, and looking in. 

With smiles that pierced like sunshine thin, 

Through wall, roof, floor. 
Stood in the midst of that poor room, 

Grand and fair — grand and fair, 
Making a glory out of gloom. 

Till at the window mocked old Care — 
Love sighed — " all lose and nothing win !" 
He shut the door. 



Then o'er the barred house of clay, 
Kind jasmine and clematis gay 

Grew evermore ; 
And bees hummed merrily outside 

Loud and strong — loud and strong, 
The inner silentness to hide, 

The steadfast silence all day long — 
Till evening touched with finger gray 
The close-shut door. 

Most like the next that passes by. 
Will be the angel whose calm eye 
Marks rich, marks poor ; 
Who pausing not at any gate. 

Stands aud calls — stands and calls ; 
At which the inmate opens straight — 

Whom, ere the crumbling clay house falls, 
He takes in kind arms silently 
And shuts the door. 

Anonymous. 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORROW. 



37 



A BALLAD VTOK A WEDDIJTG. 



TELL thee, Dick, where I have been, 
Where I the rarest things have seen, 
Oh, things without compare! 
Such sights again cannot be found 
In any place on English ground, 
Be it at wake or fair. 



At Charing Cross, hard by the way 



At Course-a park, without all doubt, 
He should have first been taken out 

By all the maids o' the town ; 
Though lusty Roger there had been. 
Or little George upon the Green, 

Or Vincent of the Crown. 

But wot you what? the youth was goinj 
To make an end of all his wooing ; 




But wot you what ? the youth was going 
To make an end of all his wooing." 



There is a house with stairs ; 
And there did I see coming down 
Such folk as are not in our town 

Forty at least, in pairs. 

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine 
(His beard no bigger, though, than thine) 

Walked on before the rest ; 
Our landlord looks like nothing to him ; 
The king, God bless him ! 'twould undo him. 

Should he go still so drest. 



The parson for him stayed ; 
Yet by his leave, for all his haste, 
He did not so much wish all past. 

Perchance, as did the maid. 

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale. 
For such a maid no Whitsun' ale 

Could ever yet produce ; 
No grape that's kindly ripe could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she. 

Nor half so full of juice. 



38 



POEMS OF JOY A^D SORROW. 



Her finger was so small, tlie ring 
Would not stay on which they did bring, 

It was too wide a peck ; 
And to say truth, for out it must, 
It looked like the great collar, just. 

About our young colt's neck. 

Her feet beneath her petticoat 
Like little mice stole in and out. 

As if they feared the light ; 
And oh, she dances such a way, 
No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight ! 

Her cheeks so rare a white was on 
No daisy makes comparison, 

Who sees them is undone ; 
For streaks of red were mingled there, 
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, 

The side that's next the sun. 

Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
Compared to that was next her chin. 

Some bee had stung it newly ; 
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
I durst no more upon them gaze 

Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 

That they might passage get ; 
But she so handled still the matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better, 

And are not spent a whit. 

Passion o' me ! how I run on ! 

There's that that would be thought upon, 

I trow, beside the bride ; 
The business of the kitchen's great. 
For it is fit that men should eat. 

Nor was it there denied. 

Just In the nick, the cook knocked thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving-man, with dish in hand, 
Marched boldly up, like our trained band. 

Presented, and away. 

When all the meat was on the table, 
What man of knife, or teeth, was able 

To stay to be entreated ? 
And this the very reason was. 
Before the parson could say grace. 

The company was seated. 

Now hats fly off", and youths carouse ; 
Healths first go round, and then the house. 

The bride's came thick and thick ; 
And when 'twas named another's health, 



Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, 

And who could help it, Dick ? 
O' the sudden up they rise and dance ; 
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance, 

Then dance again, and kiss. 
Thus several ways the time did pass. 
Till every woman wished her place. 

And every man wished his. 

By this time all were stolen aside 
To counsel and undress the bride ; 

But that he must not know ; 
But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind, 
And did not mean to stay behind 

Above an hour or so. 

Sm John Suckijn<5. 



OJV THE THRESHOLD. 
I. 

tING out, O bells, ring silver-sweet o'er 
hill and moor and fell! 
In mellow echoes let your chimes their hope- 
ful story tell. 
Ring out, ring out, all jubilant, this joyous 

glad refrain : 
"' A bright new year, a glad new year, hath 

come to us again !" 
n. 
Ah, who can say how much of joy within it 

there may be 
Stored up for us, who listen now to your sweet 

melody ? 
Good-bye, Old Year, tried, trusty friend, thy 

tale at last is told. 
O New Year, write thou thine for us in lines 

of brightest gold, 
in. 
The flowers of Spring must bloom at last, 

when gone the Winter's snow; 
God grant that after sorrow past, we all some 

joy may know. 
Though tempest-tossed our bark a while on 

life's rough waves may be. 
There comes a day of calm at last, when we 

the Haven see. 

IV. 

Then ring, ring on, O pealing bells ! there's 

music in the sound. 
Ring on, ring on, and still ring on, and wake 

the echoes round, 
The while we wish, both for ourselves and all 

whom we hold dear. 
That God may gracious be to us In this the 

bright new year I 

Anonymous, 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



39 



/JNOME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving 

>© Lock me in delight awhile ; 
Let some pleasing dreams beguile 
All my fancies ; that from thence 
I may feel an influence, 

All my powers of care bereaving ! 




IKYOCATIOK TO SLEEP. 

Though but a shadow, but a sliding, 
Let me know some little joy ; 
We that suffer long annoy 
Are contented with a thought, 
Through an idle fancy wrought ; 

Oh, let my joys have some abiding! 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 




Francis Beaumont. 



John Fletcher. 



A QUESTIOJf. 

JTOY comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows 
QJ Like the wave ; 

Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of 
men. 

Love lends life a little grace, 
A few sad smiles, and then 

Both are laid in one cold place, 
In the grave. 

Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die 

Like spring flowers ; 
Our vaunted life is one long funeral. 

Men dig graves with bitter tears 
For their dead hopes ; and all, 

Mazed with doubts and sick with fears, 
Count the hours. 

We count the hours ! These dreams of ours 
False and hollow. 
3 



Do we go hence and find that they are not 
dead! 

Joys we daily apprehend. 
Faces that smiled and fled, 

Hopes born here, and born to end. 
Shall we follow ? 

Matthew Arnold. 



IT JVE VEB COMES AGAIJY. 

fHERE are gains for all our losses. 
There are balms for all our pain ; 
But when youth, the dream, departs. 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better. 

Under manhood's sterner reign ; 
StiU we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet. 
And will never come again. 



40 POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 

Something beautiful is vanished, On the earth, and in the air, 

And we sigh for it in vain ; But it never comes again. 

We behold it everywhere, Richard Henry Stoddard. 










Jf^^ ^-^ 2%^ ^ ^^- -^;^ 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



41 



THE BABY. 

W'HERE did you come from, baby dear? 
Out of the everywhere into here. 

Where did you get the eyes so blue ? 
Out of the sky, as I came through. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 
I found it in waiting when I got here. 

What makes youi* forehead so smooth and 

high? 
A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm, w^hite 

rose ? 
I saw something better than any knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pretty ear ? 
God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands ? 
Love made itself into hooks and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling 

things ! 
From the same box as the cherub's wings. 

How^ did they all come just to be you ? 
God thought of me, and so I grew. 

But, how did you come to us, you dear? 
God thought about you, and so I am here. 
George JVIacDonald. 



AT THE KIjYG'S GATE. 

t BEGGAR sat at the king's gate 
And sang of summer in the rain— 
A song with sounds reverberate 
Of wood and hill and plain. 
That, rising, bore a tender weight 
Of sweetness, strong and passionate ; 
A song with sigh of mountain pass, 
Ripple and rustle of deep grass. 
The whispering of wind-smote sheaves. 
Low lapping of long lily leaves. 
Red morns and purple-mooned eves. 

The king was w^eary of his part. 
The king was tired of his crown ; 
He looked across the rainy land, 
Across the barren stretch of sand, 
Out to the breadth of rainy sea. 



He heard the wind beat loud and free, 
The gilded casement, sullenly 
Falling away with mist and rain. 
" But, oh, it's a weary thing 
To wear a crown and be a king 
Oh, for one golden hour and sweet, 
To serve the king with willing feet!" 
But he would sleep and from his heart 
The jeweled, silken girdle loose. 
And give it room to turn and choose 
An easier measure for its beat. 

Into the gilded chamber crept 
A breath of summer, blown with rain 
And wild wet leaves against the pane. 

The royal sleeper smiled and slept. 
" T thought that all things sweet were dead!''- 
They heard him say who came to wed 
The crown again to the king's head. 

ANONYMOUS. 



KEYS. 

T^ ONG ago in old Granada, when the Moors 
i@f were forced to flee. 
Each man locked his home behind him, taking 
in his flight the key. 

Hopefully they watched and waited for the 

time to come when they 
Should return from their long exile to those 

homes so far away. 

But the mansions in Granada they had left in 

all their prime 
Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath 

the crumbling touch of Time. 

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where 

we vainly long to be. 
And through all life's changing phases ever fast 

we hold the key. 

Our fair country lies behind us ; we are exiles, 
too, in truth. 

For no more shall we behold her. Our Gran- 
ada's name is Youth. 

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice 

w^hen, now and then. 
Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we 

feel our youth again. 

"We are young!" we cry triumphant, thrilled 

with old-time joy and glee. 
Then the dream fades slowly, softly, lea\ing 

nothing but the key ! 

Bessie Chandler. 



42 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 
MAIDEJ^HOOD. 



IjgJ AIDEN", with the meek, brown eyes, 
j|@i In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one. 
As the braided streamlets run ! 



Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 




Maiden, with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies." 



Standing, with reluctant feet 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse I 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem 
As the river of a dream. 



Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more. 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ; 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



43 



Childhood is the bough where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; 
Age, the bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows. 
When the young heart overflows. 
To embahn that tent of snows. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE CITY OF THE LIVIjYG. 

iN a long banished age, whose varied story 
No record has to-day, 
So long ago expired its grief and glory. 
There flourished far away. 



In a broad realm, whose beauty passed all 
measure, 

A city far and wide, 
Wherein the dwellers lived in pea^ce and 
pleasure, 

And never any died. 

Disease and pain and death, those stern ma- 
rauders 

That mar our world's fair face,' 
Never encroached upon the pleasant borders 

Of this bright dwelling-place. 

No fear of parting, and no dread of dying 

Could ever enter there ; 
No mourning for the lost, no anguished cry- 
ing, 

Made any face less fair. 

Without the city's walls Death reigned as ever, 
And graves rose side by side ; 

Within the people laughed at his endeavor. 
And never any died. 

O happiest of all earth's favored places ! 

Oh, bliss to dwell therein ! 
To live in the sweet light of loving faces 

And fear no grave between. 

To feel no death-damp growing cold and cold- 
er, 

Disputing Life's warm truth ; 
To live on never lonelier nor older. 

Radiant in deathless youth. 

And hurrying from the world's remotest quar- 
ters 

A tide of pilgrims flowed 
Across broad plains and over mighty waters 
To find that blest abode. 



And there they lived in happiness and pleas- 
ure. 

And grew in power and pride. 
And did great deeds and laid up stores of 
treasure. 

And never any died. 

And many years rolled on and saw them striv- 
ing 

With unabated breath ; 
And other years still found and left them liv- 
ing, 

And gave no hope of death. 

Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity, 

Craving a boon like this ; 
Mark how the dwellers of the wondrous city 

Grew weary of their bliss. 

One and another who had been concealing 
The pain of life's long thrall. 

Forsook their pleasant faces and came steal- 
ing 

Outside the city's wall. 

Craving with wish that brooked no more 
denying. 

So long had it been crossed, 
The blessed possibility of dying — 

The treasure they had lost ! 

Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals 

Swelled to a broader tide, 
'Till none were left within the city's portals, 

And graves grew green outside. 

Would it be worth the having or the giving. 
The boon of endless breath ? 

Ah, for the weariness that comes of living 
There is no cure but death! 

Ours were, indeed, a case deserving pity 

Were that sweet rest denied ; 
And few, methinks, would care to find the 
city 

Where never any died ! 

Elizabeth Akers Allen. 



BEYOJ^D THE GATE. 

fWO dimpled hands the bars of iron grasp- 
ed; 
Two blue and wondering eyes the space 
looked through. 
This massive gate a boundary had been set, 
Nor was she ever known to be but true. 



44 



POEMS OF JOY AXD SORROW. 



Strange were the sights she saw across the 
way— 

A little child had died some days before — 
And as she watched, amid the silence hushed, 

Some carried flowers, some a casket hore. 

The little watcher at the garden gate 
Grew tearful, hers such thoughts and won- 
derings were, 
Till said the nurse : " Come here, dear child. 
Weep not. 
We all must go. 'Tis God has sent for her." 

" If He should send for me" — thus spoke the 
child— 
" I'll have to tell the angel, ' Do not wait. 
Though God has sent for me, I cannot come ; 
I never go beyond the garden gate.' " 

Kathaijixe McDowell, Rice. 



REST. 
J\A Y feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, 
Jfi\^ My soul oppressed — 

And I desire, what I have long desired — 
Rest — only rest. 

'Tis hard to toil, when toil is almost vain, 

In barren ways ; 
'Tis hard to sow, and never garner grain 

In harvest days. 

The burden of my days is hard to bear. 

But God knows best ; 
And I have prayed, but vain has been my 
prayer, 

For rest — sweet rest. 

'Tis hard to plant in spring and never reap 

The Autumn yield ; 
'Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep 

O'er fruitless field. 

And so I cry a weak and human cry, 

So heart oppressed ; 
And so I sigh a weak and human sigh. 

For rest — for rest. 

My way has wound across the desert years, 

And cares infest 
My path, and through the flowing of hot tears 

I pine for rest. 

And I am restless still ; 'twill soon be o'er ; 

For, down the West 
Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore 

Where I shall rest. 

Abram J. Ryax. 

(Father Ryau.) 



THE WORLD GOES UP AXT) THE 
WORLD GOES DOWJV. 

^MHE world goes up and the world goes 
F down. 

And the sunshine follows the rain ; 
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown 

Can never come over again. 

Sweet wife, can never come over again. 

For woman Is warm, though man maybe cold. 

And the night Will hallow the day; 
TiU the heart which at even was wear}^ and 
old. 
Can rise in the morning gay, 
Sweet wife, can rise in the morning gay. 
Charles Kixgsley. 



SOJVG—'' WHEJV THE DTMPLED 
WATEJl SLLPPETH." 

(From ' ' Alternoon at a Parsouage. ■■ ') 

WHET^ the dimpled water slippeth, 
Full of laughter, on its way, 
And her wing the wagtail dippeth, 

Running by the brink at play; 
When the poplar leaves a-tremble 

Turn their edges to the light, 
And the far-up clouds resemble 

Veils of gauze most clear and white ; 
And the sunbeams fall and flutter 

Woodland moss and branches brown. 
And the glossy finches chatter 

Up and down, up and down ; 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having music of her own, 
On the grass, through meadows wending, 

It is sweet to walk alone. 

When the falling waters utter 

Something mournful on their way, 
And departing swallows flutter, 

Taking leave of bank and brae ; 
When the chaffinch idly sitteth 

With her mate upon the sheaves. 
And the wistful robin flitteth 

Over beds of j^ellow leaves ; 
When the clouds like ghosts that ponder 

Evil fate, float by and frown, 
And the listless wind doth wander 

Up and down, up and down ; 
Though the heart be not attending. 

Having sorrows of her own, 
Through the fields and fallows wending. 

It is sad to walk alone. 

Jean Ingelow. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SOKROW. 



45 



SOJVJVUT TO SLEEP. 

/g^OME, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of O make in me those civil wars to cease ; 

VS/ peace, I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest 

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, bed ; 

The indifferent judge between the high and A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; 

low, A rosy garland, and a weary head. 

With shield of proof shield me from out the And if these things, as being thine by right, 

press Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me 

Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 

throw : Sir Philip Sidney. 




"And the dream I spun was so lengthy, 
It lasted till dav was done." 



A DREAM, 
LL yesterday I was spinning. 
Sitting alone in the sun ! 
And the dream I spun was so lengthy, 
It lasted till day was done. 



I took the threads of my spinning 
All of blue summer air, 

And a flickering ray of sunlight 
Was woven in here and there. 



k 



I heeded not cloud or shadow 

That flitted over the hiU, 
Or the humming bees or the swallows, 

Or the trickling of the rill. 



The shadows grew longer and longer. 

The evening wind passed by. 
And the purple splendor of sunset 

Was flooding the western sky. 



46 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



But I could not leave my spinning, 
For so fair my dream had grown, 

I heeded not, hour by hour, 
How the silent day had flown. 

At last the gray shadow^s fell round me, 
And the night came dark and chill, 

And I rose and ran down the valley. 
And left it all on the hill. 

I went up the hill this morning. 
To the place where my spinning lay — 

There was nothing but glistening dew-drops 
Remained of my dream to-day. 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 



BniYi:N'G HOME THE COWS. 

§UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river-lane ; 
One after another he let them pass. 
Then fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willows and over the hill 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still. 
And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy I and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go ; 

Two already were lying dead 
Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening w^ork was done. 
And the frogs were loud in the meadow- 
swamp. 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 
And stealthily followed the footpath damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat. 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 



Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet. 
And the blind bat's tlitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 

And now, when the cows came back at night. 
The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 
That three were lying where two had lain. 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and late ; 

He went for the cows when the work was 
done ; 
But down the lane, as he opened the gate. 

He saw them coming one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind. 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — 
But who was it following close behind ? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn. 
And yield their dead to life again. 

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes, 
For the heart must speak when the lips are 
dumb. 
And under the silent evening skies 
Together they followed the cattle home. 
Kate Putnam Osgood. 



THE WORLUS IjYDIFFEREJVCE. 

(From "The Virginians.") 

*HE world can pry out everything about us which it has a mind to know. But there is 
this consolation, which men will never accept in their own cases, that the world 
doesn't care. Consider the amount of scandal it has been forced to hear in its time, 
*!*" and how weary and hlase it must be of that kind of intelligence. You are taken 
to prison, and fancy yourself indelibly disgraced ? You are bankrupt under odd circum- 
stances ? You drive a queer bargain with your friends, and are found out, and imagine the 
world will punish you ? Pshaw 1 Your shame is only vanity. Go and talk to the world as if 
nothing had happened, and nothing has happened. Tumble down ; brush the mud off your 
clothes; appear with a smiling countenance, and nobody cares. Do you suppose society is 
going to take out its pocket-handkerchief and be inconsolable when you die ? Why should it 
care very much, then, whether your worship graces yourself or disgraces yourself? Whatever 
happens, it talks, meets, jokes, yawns, has its dinner pretty much as before. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



47 




"Her book of the favorite poet unheeded at her side, 
She saw the bright noon pale to twilight soon, she saw the gloaming glide." 



WAITING. 



(^ITTE^G under the birch trees, in the 
!© beautiful April day, 
Watching the gleam through the branches 
stream, watching the sunlight's play ; 



Hearing the birds' gay carol, seeing each 

glancing wing. 
Wishing them mute, lest the coming foot were 

unheard 'mid the sounds of Spring. 



48 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



Sitting under the birch trees, where the thick- 
ening lilacs made 

Of white, pui-ple, and green, a graceful screen, 
her lonely head to shade ; 

Her book of the favorite poet unheeded at her 
side, 

She saw the bright noon pale to twilight soon, 
she saw the gloaming glide, 

Glide from its couch of violets, with its sad, 

strange, lovely eyes, 
With its soft, cool touch that says so much, 

with its voice like our happy sighs ; 
With its sweet and soothing magic, for the 

tired heart and frame. 
That had throbbed so strong, had tarried so 

long, for the footstep that never came. 

Never! The evening darkened, the night fell 

soft o'er all. 
Each bird in its nest had found its rest ; the 

tiowers heard sleep's low call ; 
She passed by the screen of lilacs, she passed 

to her silent home. 
The sweet sad pain had been all in vain ; the 

footstep had never come. 

AXOXYMOUS. 



TEE LADTS DREAM. 

J^HE lady lay in her bed, 

P Her couch so warm and soft, 
But her sleep was restless and broken still ; 

For turning oft and oft 
From side to side, she muttered and moaned. 

And tossed her arms aloft. 

At last she startled up. 

And gazed on the vacant air, 
With alookof awe, as if she saw 

Some dreadful phantom there ; 
And then in the pillow she buried her face 

From visions ill to bear. 

The very curtain shook, 

Her terror was so extreme ; 
And the light that fell on the broidered quilt 

Kept a tremulous gleam ; 
And her voice was hollow, and shook as she 

cried : 
" Oh me ! that awful dream I 

" That weary, weary walk. 

In the churchyard's dismal ground ; 
And those horrible things, with shady wings, 



That came and fitted round ; 
Death, death, and nothing but death, 
In every sight and sound ! 

" And oh ! those maidens young. 
Who wrought in that dreary room 

With figures drooping and spectres thin, 
And cheeks without a bloom ; 

And the Voice that cried : ' For the pomp of 
pride. 
We haste to an early tomb ! 

" ' For the pomp and pleasure of pride, 

We toil like Afric slaves. 
And only to earn a home at last, 

Where yonder cypress waves ;' 
And then they pointed — I never saw 

A ground so full of graves ! 

" And still the coffins came. 

With their sorrowful trains and slow ; 
Coffin after coffin still, 

A sad and sickening show ; 
From grief exempt, I had never dreamt 

Of such a world of woe I 

" Of the hearts that daily break. 

Of the tears that hourly fall. 
Of the many, many troubles of life. 

That grieve this earthly ball. 
Disease and Hunger and Pain and Want ; 

But now I dreamt of them all. 

" For the blind and crippled were there. 
And the babe that pined for bread. 

And the houseless man, and the widow poor 
Who begged — to bury the dead ; 

The naked, alas, that I might have clad, 
The famished I might have fed ! 

" The sorrow I might have soothed. 

And the unregarded tears ; 
For many a thronging shape was there, 

From long forgotten years ; 
Aye, even the poor rejected Moor, 

Who raised my childish fears ! 

" Each pleading look that long ago 

I scanned with a heedless eye, 
Each face was gazing as plainly there 

As when I passed it by ; 
Woe, woe for me, if the past should be 

Thus present when I die I 

" No need of sulphureous lake. 

No need of fiery coal, 
But only that crowd of human kind 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORROW. 



49 



Who wanted pity and dole, 
In everlasting retrospect 
Will wring my sinful soul ! 

"Alas! I have walked through life 

Too heedless where I trod ; 
Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm 

And till the burial sod, 
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 

Not unmarked of God. 

" I drank the richest draughts. 

And ate whatever is good ; 
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit, 

Supplied my hungry mood ; 
But I never remembered the wretched ones 

That starve for want of food. 

" I dressed as the noble dress. 
In cloth of silver and gold. 



With silk, and satin, and costly furs, 

In many an ample fold ; 
But I never remembered the naked limbs 

That froze with winter's cold ! 

" The wounds I might have healed ! 

The human sorrow and smart ! 
And yet it was never in my soul 

To play so ill a part ; 
But evil is wrought by want of thought. 

As well as want of heart!" 

She clasped her fervent hands, 
And the tears began to stream ; 

Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, 
Remorse was so extreme ; 

And yet, oh yet, that many a dame 
Would dream the Lady's Dream ! 

Thomas Hood. 










'* They gi'ed him my hand, but m}' heart was at the sea j 
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me." 

ATJLB ROBm GRAY. 

T^/'HEN" the sheep are in the fauld, and the Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me 
W kye at hame, for his bride ; 

And a' the warld to rest are gane. But saving a croun he had naething else beside; 

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed 

e'e, to sea, 

While my gudeman lies sound by me. And the croun and the pund were baith for me. 



50 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



He hadna been away a week but only twa, 
When my father brak his arm, and the cow 

was stown awa; 
My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the 

sea, 
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. 

My father couldna work, and my mother 
couldna spin ; 

I toiled night and day, but their bread I could- 
na win ; 

Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' 
tears in his e'e, 

Said, "Jennie, for thei;: sakes, oh, marry 
me!" 

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie 

back; 
But the wind it blew bigh, and the ship, it 

was a wrack; 
His ship it was a wrack — why didna Jamie 

dee? 
Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me ? 

My father urgit sair; my mother didna 

speak. 
But she lookit in my face till my heart was 

like to break; 
They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at 

the sea ; 
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to 

me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four. 
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the 

door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think 

it he. 
Till he said, " I'm come hame to marry thee." 

Oh sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we 

say; 
We took but ae kiss, and I bade him gang 

away ; 
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to 

dee; 
And why was I born to say, Wae's me ? 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a 

sin ; 
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, 
For auld Robin Gray he is kind to me. 

Lady Ann Lindsay. 



ODE TO ADVERSITY. 

^AUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, 
11/ Thou tamer of the human breast, 
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 

The bad affright, afflict the best; 
Bound in thy adamantine chain, 
The proud are taught to taste of pain, 
And purple tyrants vainly groan 
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 

When first thy sire, to send on earth. 
Virtue, his darling child, designed, 
To thee he gave the heavenly birth, 

And bade to form her infant mind ; 
Stern, rugged nurse 1 thy rigid lore 
With patience many a year she bore ; 
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know. 
And from her own, she learned to melt at oth- 
ers' woe. 

Scared at thy frown terrific, fiy 

Self pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
With Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 

And leave us leisure to be good. 
Light they disperse ; and with them go 
The summer friend, the flattering foe. 
By vain Prosperity received ; 
To her they vow their truth, and are again 
believed. 

Wisdom, in simple garb arrayed. 
Immersed In rapturous thought profound, 

And Melancholy, silent maid. 
With leaden eye that loves the ground. 

Still on thy solemn steps attend ; 

Warm Charity, the general friend. 

With Justice, to herself severe. 

And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 

Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head. 

Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand I 
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad. 

Nor circled with thy vengeful band. 
As by the impious thou art seen. 
With thundering voice and threatening mien. 
With screaming Horror's funeral cry, 
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 

Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear! 

Thy milder influence impart. 
Thy philosophic train be there, 

To soften, not to wound my heart ; 
The generous spark extinct revive ; 
Teach me to love and to forgive ; 
Exact my own defects to scan, 
What others are to feel, and know myself a 
man. Thomas Gray. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



51 



BOCK ME TO SLEEP. 

EACKWARD, turn backward, O Time in 
your flight, 
Make me a child again, just for to-night! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears. 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain ; 
Take them, and give me my childhood again. 
I have grown weary of dust and decay. 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away, 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green. 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between. 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long 1 to-night for thy presence again. 
Come from the silence, so long and so deep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures. 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours ; 
None bnt a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain; 
Slumber's soft, calms o'er my heavy lids creep; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with 

gold. 
Fall on your shoulders, again as of old. 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 



Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 

Since I last listened your lullaby song ; 

Sing, then ; and unto my soul it shall seem 

Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 

Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace. 

With your light lashes just sweeping my face. 

Never hereafter to wake or to weep. 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Elizabeth Akers Allen. 
("Florence Percy.") 



OFT IJ\r THE STILLY JYtGHT 

|\FT in the stilly night, 

'%} Ere slumber's chain hath bound me, 

Fond memory brings the light 
Of other days around me ; 
The smiles, the tears 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone 
Now dimmed and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken : 

Thus in the stilly night. 
Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 

Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 
The friends so linked together 

I've seen around me fall 
Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted. 
Whose lights are fled. 
Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed ! 

Thus in the stilly night, 
Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 

Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Thomas Moore. 



AFFLICTIOJV. 

'HE bread of bitterness is the food on which men grow to their fullest stature ; the 
waters of bitterness are the debatable ford through which they reach the shores of 
wisdom ; the ashes boldly grasped and eaten without faltering are the price that must 
be paid for the golden fruit of knowledge. 

Louise De La Rame. 

("Ouida.") 



52 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



WEARIJfESS. 



§ LITTLE feet! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears, 
Must ache and hleed beneath your load ; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
Am weary thinking of your road ! 



O little hearts! that throb and beat 
With such impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine that so long has glowed and burned 
With passions into ashes turned 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 




" I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
Am weary thinking of your road." 



O little hands, that weak or strong. 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 

Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I, who so much with book or pen 
Have toiled among my fellow men 

Am weary thinking of your task ! 



O little souls as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source divine ; 
Refracted through the mist of years, 
How red my setting sun appears. 

How lurid looks this soul of mine! 

Heney Wadsworth Longfellow 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



53 



SOj\G. 

(From "The Princess.") 

S through the land at eve we went, 
And plucked the ripened ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 
And kissed again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave. 
Oh, there above the little grave, 

We kissed again with tears. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



EjYOCH'S BETURjY. 

(From ''Enoch Arden.") 

UT Enoch yearned to see her face again ; 
111) " If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy !" So the thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him 

forth, 
At evening when the dull ISTovember day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down, gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By-and-by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward ; but behind. 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd ; 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it ; 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That which he better might have shunned, if 

griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth : 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Pair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand 



Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms. 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe. 
But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for he 
smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness. 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all. 
Because things seen are mightier than things 

heard, 
Stagger' d and shook, holding the branch, and 

fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
AYhich in one moment, like the blast of doom. 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He, therefore, turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall. 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed. 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his 
knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

" Too hard to bear ! why did they take me 
thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Savior, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle. 
Uphold me. Father, in my loneliness, 
A little longer ! Aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children, too ! must I not speak with these? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never. No father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature failed a 

little, 
And he lay tranced. 

A1.FRED Tennyson. 





^rx. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



55 



COMFLAIKT. Shall know the tear, the shadow, and the 

(From "Kathriua.") knell; 

tlVER, sparkling river, I have fault to find ^ Mother of our race ! Art does but image 
with thee; ^a*® 

River, thou dost never give a word of peace ^" *^^«' ^o fair, and fond, and yet disconsolate. 

to me ; Hekry Theodore Tuckerman. 

Dimpling to each touch of sunshine, wimp- 
ling to each air that blows, 
Thou dost make no sweet replying to my 
sighing for repose. 

Flowers of mount and meadow, 1 have fault 

to find with you ; 
So the breezes cross and toss you, so your 

cups are filled with dew. 
Matters not though sighs give motion to the 

ocean of your breath ; 
Matters not though you are filling with the 

chilling drops of death. 

Birds of song and beauty, lo, I charge you all 

with blame ! 
Though all hapless passions thrill and fill me, 

you are still the same ; 
I can borrow for my sorrow nothing that 

avails 
From your lonely note, that only speaks of 

joy that never fails. 

Oh, indifference of Nature to the fact of hu- 
man pain ! 

Every grief that seeks relief entreats it at her 
hand in vain ; 

Not a bird speaks forth its passion, not a riv- 
er seeks the sea. 

Nor a flower from wreaths of summer breathes 
in sympathy with me. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 



OBE TO AJ^ IMDIAJV GOLD COIJ^. 

^LAVE of the dark and dirty mine, 

® What vanity has brought thee here ? 

How can I love to see thee shine 
So bright, whom I have bought so dear 
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 

For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 
The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear. 

Where mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Cherical's dark wandering streams. 
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 

Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
Of Teviot loved while still a child. 
Of castled rocks stupendous piled 

By Esk or Eden's classic wave. 
Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, 

Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perished bliss of youth's first prime 
That once so bright on fancy played 




Henry T. Tuckerman. 



TO THE ''EVE'' OF POWERS. 

H, thine is not the woe of love forlorn 
Pi That Niobe's maternal anguish wears, 
Nor yet the grief of sin, remorseful born, 

Canova's Magdalen so gently bears ; 
But the sad consciousness that through a 
wrong 
Conceived in self, and for a selfish end. 
Immeasurable pain will now belong 

To unborn millions, with their life to blend; 
A heritage whereby sweet nature's face, 

So radiant with hope, and love's dear spell, 
And all on earth that breathes of joy or grace, 
4 



56 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



Revives no more in after-time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The dai'ing thoughts that soared sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. 
A gentle vision comes by night 

My lonely widowed heart to cheer ; 

Her eyes are dim with many a tear 
That once were guiding stars to mine ; 

Her fond heart throbs w ith many a fear : 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
1 left a heart that loved me true. 



I crossed the tedious ocean-wave 
To roam in climes unkind and new ; 
The cold wind of the stranger blew 

Chill on my withered heart ; the grave, 
Dark and untimely met my view ; 

And all for thee, vile yellow slave! 

Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock 

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn. 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 

Of sun-rays tipped with death has borne? 

From love, from friendship, country torn. 
To memory's fond regrets the prey. 

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn I 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 

John Leyden. 




" Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea !" 



§REAK, break, break. 
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

Oh well for the fisherman's boy. 
That he shouts with his sister at play! 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Oh well for the sailor lad, 
That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 



And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill. 

But oh for the touch of a vanished hand. 
And the sound pf a vpice that H still! 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



57 



Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE OLD FAMILLIR FACES. 

J) HAVE had playmates, I have had compan- 
' ions, 

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
days ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
Drinking late, sitting late with my bosom 
cronies ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me now, I must not 
see her. 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my 
childhood, 

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to trav- 
erse. 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a broth- 
er. 

Why wert thou not born in my father's dwell- 
ing? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, 

How some they have died, and some they 

have left me. 
And some are taken from me ; all are depart- 
ed. 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Charles Lamb. 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

BLESSINGS on thee, little man. 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed b^ strawberries on the hiU y 



With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ! 
From my heart I give thee joy : 
I was once a barefoot boy. 
Prince thou art — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side. 
Thou hast more than he can buy, 
In the reach of ear and eye ; 
Outward sunshine, inward joy. 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

O ! for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in la^ighing day. 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules. 
Knowledge never learned of schools : 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell. 
How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young. 
How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
Where the whitest lihes blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Wherethe ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay. 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 
For eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks. 
Part and parcel of her joy. 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

for boyhood's time of Jime, 
Crowding years in one brief moon. 
When all things I heard or saw. 
Me, their master, waited for ! 

1 was rich in flowers and trees. 
Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
For my sport the squirrel played. 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight. 
Through the day and through the night : 
Whispering at the garden wall. 
Talked with me from faU to fall j 



58 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 




Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan.' 



Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Ai)ples of Hesperides ! 
Still, as my horizon grew. 
Larger grew my riches too. 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 



O, for festal dainties spread. 
Like my bowl of milk and bread. 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent ; 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
Wliile, for music, came the play 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



59 



Of the pied frogs' orcliestra ; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch ; pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man I 
Live and laugh as boyhood can ; - 
Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 



All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison-cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod. 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil. 
Up and down in ceaseless moil; 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy. 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

John Greenleaf WHrmER 




" Sleep on, baby on the floor, 
Tired of all thy playing." 

SLEEFIKG AKT) WATCHIKG. 

^LEEP on, baby on the floor. Little head and little foot 
)# Tired of all thy playing, Heavy laid for pleasure. 

With a smile the sweeter for Underneath the lids half shut 

That you dropped away in I Slants the shining azure ; 

On your curls' fair roundness stand Open soul in noonday sun, 

Golden lights serenely ; So you lie and slumber! 

One cheek, pushed out by the hand, Nothing evil having done, 

Folds the dimple inly ; Nothing can encumber. 



60 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



I, who cannot sleep as well, 

Shall I sigh to view you? 
Or sigh further to foretell 

All that may undo you? 
Nay, keep smiling, little child, 

Ere the sorrow neareth. 
I will smile, too! Patience mild 

Pleasure's token weareth. 
Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; 

I shall sleep through losing : 
As by cradle, so by cross. 

Sure is the reposing : 



Go, look in vour hall, where the chandelier's 

light ^ 
Drives off with its splendor the darkness of 

night. 
Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy 

fold, 
Sweeps gracefully down with its trimming of 

gold. 
And the mirrors of silver take up and renew, 
In long lighted vistas, the wildering view — 
Go there in jour patches, and find if you can, 
A welcoming smile for the moneyless man ! 



And God knows who sees us twain. 

Child at childish leisure, 
I am near as tired of pain 

As you seem of pleasure ; 
Very soon, too, by his grace 

Gently wrapped around me. 
Shall I show as calm a face, 

Shall I sleep as soundly : 
Diftering in this, that you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping, 
While my hand shall drop the few 

Given to my keeping; 
Differing in this, that I 

Sleeping shall be colder. 
And in waking presently, 

Brighter to beholder : 
Differing in this, beside, 

(Sleeper, have you heard me ? 
Do you move, and open wide 

Eyes of wonder toward me ?) 
That while you I thus recall 

From your sleep, I solely. 
Me from mine an angel shall, 

With reveille holy ! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



THE MONEYLESS MAX. 

IS there no secret place on the face of the 

I earth. 

Where charity dwelleth, where virtue hath 

birth ? 
Where bosoms in mercy and kindness shall 

heave, 
And the poor and the wretched shall "ask and 

receive ?" 
Is there no place on earth where a knock from 

the poor 
Will bring a kind angel to open the door? 
Ah I search the wide world wherever you can, 
There is no open door for a moneyless man 1 



Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching 

spire, 
"Wliich gives back to the sun his same look of 

red fire. 
Where the arches and columns are gorgeous 

within. 
And the walls seem as pure as a soul without 

sin; 
Go down the long aisle — see the rich and the 

great. 
In the pomp and the pride of their worldly 

estate — 
Walk down in your patches, and find, if you 

can. 
Who opens a pew to a moneyless man. 

Go, look on yon judge in the dark flowing 

gown, 
With the scales wherein law weigheth equity 

down. 
Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on 

the strong. 
And punishes right where he justifies wrong ; 
"VATiere jurors their lips on the Bible have laid. 
To render a verdict they've already made ; 
Go, there in the court-room, and find if you 

can, 
Any law for the cause of a moneyless man ! 

Go, look in the banks where mammon has told 
His hundreds and thousands of silver and 

gold ; 
Where safe from the hand of the starving and 

poor. 
Lays pile upon pile of the glittering ore ; 
Walk up to the counter — and there you may 

stay 
Till your limbs grow old and your hair turns 

gray, 
And you'll find at the banks no one of the clan 
With money to loan to a moneyless man ! 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORROW. 



61 



Then go to your hovel ; no raven has fed And bless while it smites you, the chastening 
The wife who has suffered too long for her rod ; 

bread ; And you'll find at the end of your little life's 
Kneel down on the pallet and kiss the death span, 

frost There's a welcome above for a moneyless 
From the lips of the angel your poverty lost ; man ! 

Then turn in your agony upward to God, Henry T. SxAirroK* 




.;^- wK.r'^ 






I've said my 'seven times ' over and over- 
Seven times one are seven." 



SOKGS OF SEVEJ{. 

SEVEN TIMES ONE-EXULTATION. J am old— SO old I cau Write a letter ; 

f HERE'S no dew left on the daisies and My birthday lessons are done, 

clover. The lambs play always— they know no better ; 
There's no rain left in heaven. They are only one times one. 

I've said my " seven times" over and over — 

Seven times one are seven. O Moon I in the night I have seen you sailing 



62 POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 

And shining so round and low. The fox-glove shoots out of the green matted 

You were bright — ah, bright — but your light heather, 

is failing ; Preparing her hoods of snow ; 

You are nothing now but a bow. She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weath- 
er : 

You Moon ! have you done something wrong O, children take long to grow, 
in heaven, 

That God has hidden your face ? I wish, and I wish that the spring would go 

I hope, if you have, you will soon b6 forgiven, faster. 

And shine again in your place. Nor long summer bide so late ; 

And I could grow on like the fox-glove and 

O velvet Bee ! you're a dusty fellow — aster, 

You've powdered your legs with gold. For some things are ill to wait. 
O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow. 

Give me your money to hold I I wait for the day when dear hearts shall dis- 
cover, 

O Columbine, open your folded wrapper, While dear hands are laid on my head ; 

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! " The child is a woman, the book may close 

Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper over. 

That hangs in your clear green beU ! For aU the lessons are said." 

A r,/i ^1,^^ ^^ ^«„^ ^^ci- ^.n-v. +1,^ ^r...^r^ ^^r.c I wsiit foT uij stOTj — ^thc blrds cannot sing it, 

And show me your nest, with the young ones „ ^ -, .^ ^^ ^ 

I will not steal them away ; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O 

1 am old ! vou may trust me, linnet, linnet, _ . ^^^f ^ • ■• -^ . v 

I am seven times one to-dky. Such as I wish it to be. 



SEVEN TIxMES TWO.-ROMANCE. SEVEN TIMKS THREE.-LOVE. 

OU bells in the steeple, ring, ring out 1 LEANED out of window, I smelt the white 

your changes -l clover. 

How many soever they be. Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the 

And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he gate ; 

ranges "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 

Come over, come over to me. lover — 

Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightin- 

Yet bird's clearest carol, by fall or by swell- gale, wait 

ing Till I listen and hear 

No magical sense conveys. If a step draweth near. 

And bells have forgotten their old art of tell- For my love he is late ! 

ing 

The fortune of future days. " The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and 

nearer, 

" Turn again, turn again," once they rang A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, 

cheerily, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes 

While a boy listened alone ; clearer : 

Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily To what art thou listening, and what dost 

All by himself on a stone. . thou see ? 

Let the star-clusters glow, 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are Let the sweet waters flow, 

over. And cross quickly to me. 
And mine, they are yet to be ; 

No listening, no longing shall aught, aught dis- "You night-moths that hover where honey 

cover : brims over 

You leave the story to me. From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 




'* Too deep for swift telling ; and jet, my one lover, 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 

"You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender 
discover and small! 

To him that comes darkling along the rough Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's 



steep. 

Ah, my sailor, make haste. 
For the time runs to waste, 
And my love lieth deep^ 
Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one 

lover, 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to- 
night." 

By the sycamore passed he, and through the 
white clover ; 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned 
took flight ; 
But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 



SEVEN TIMES EOUR.-MATERNrrT. 

TjTEIGH-HO ! daisies and buttercups, 
J^l^ Fair yellow daflfodlls, stately and taU ! 
When the wind wakes how they rock in the 
grasses, 



own lasses. 
Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow. 
That loved her brown little ones, loved them 
full fain ; 
Sing, " Heart thou art wide, though the house 
be but narrow," 

Sing once and sing it again. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups. 
Sweet wagging > cowslips, they bend and 
they bow ; 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters. 
And. haply one musing doth stand at her 
prow. 
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daugh- 
ters, 
May-be he thinks on you now ! 

Helgh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 



64 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 




**0 bonny bro^-n sons, and O sweet little daughters, 
May-be be thinks on you now !" 



Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — 
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 
And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and 
thrall 
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its 
measure, 

God that is over us all! 



SEVEN TIMES FIVE.-WIDOWHOOD. 

SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan, 
Before I am well awake ; 
" Let me bleed ! Oh, let me alone. 
Since I must not break !" 



For children wake, though fathers sleep, 
AVith a stone at foot and at head ; 

sleepless God ! forever keep, 
Keep both living and dead ! 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see, 
But a world happy and fair ; 

I have not wished it to mourn with me, 
Comfort is not there. 



O what anear but golden broom8l 
And a waste of reedy rills ; 

what afar but the line glooms 
On the rare blue hills ! 

1 shall not die, but live forlore — 
How bitter it is to part! 

to -meet thee, my love, once more! 
O my heart, my heart ! 

No more to hear, no more to see ! 

that an echo might awake 

And waft one note of thy psalm to me, 
Ere my heart-strings break ! 

1 should know It how faint soe'er, 
And with angel voices blent ; 

O once to feel thy spirit anear, 

1 could be content 1 

O once between the gates of gold, 
While an angel entering trod ; 

But once — thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God. 






^/i.-rx^ OU-^ d^i^iru,^'^ 



66 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



SEVEN TIMES 5IX.-GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 

f^O bear, to nurse, to rear, 
W To watch, and then to lose : 
To see my bright ones disappear, 

Drawn up like morning dews ; — 
To bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done when God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed. 

And with thy lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart. — 
To hear, to heed, to Vv ed. 

This whilst thou didst I smiled. 
For now it was not God who said, 

" Mother, give me thy child." 

O fond, O fool, and blind. 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But, when a man like grace should find. 

My soul put by her fears. 
O fond, O fool, and blind, 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed. 

Fair lot that maidens choose, 
Thj"^ mother's tenderest words are said. 

Thy face no more she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear. 

She doth in naught accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love — and then to lose. 



SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. -LONGINGS FOR HOME. 
A SONG OF A BOAT. 

fHERE was once a boat on a billow : 
'Lightly she rocked to her port remote. 
And the foam was white in her wake like 

snow, 
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze 

would blow, 
And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtsying over the billow, 
T marked her course till a dancing mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam. 
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home; 



And my thoughts all day were about the 
boat, 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 

I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short :— 
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat. 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she bore, 

On the open desolate sea. 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, 

For he came not back to me — Ah, me! 



A SONG OF A NEST. 

fHERE was once a nest in a hollow, 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass press- 
ed. 
Soft and warm and full to the brim ; 
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim ; 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest. 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter. 

That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own — 

Ah, happy, happy I! 
Right dearly I loved them: but when they 
were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly. 
Oh, one after one they flew away. 

Far up to the heavenly blue, 
To the better country, the upper day ; 

And — I wish I was going, too. 

I pray you what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest ? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed ? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set. 

Now all its hope hath failed ? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went. 

And the land where my nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts are 
sent. 

The only home for me — Ah, me ! 

Jean Ingelow. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 67 



THE BETURJf OF RIP YAK WIJ^KLE. 

'E had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his 
heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his grey beard. The dogs, too, not one of 
which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very vil- 
lage was altered ; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which 
he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. 
Strange names were over the doors — stranger faces at the windows — everything was strange. 
His mind now misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him 
were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. 
There stood the Kaatskill mountains— there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was 
every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — " That flagon 
last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached 
with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Yan Winkle. He 
found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off 
the hinges. A half starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called 
him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut 
indeed — " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Yan Winkle had always kept in neat 
order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his 
connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a 
moment wtth his voice, and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it too was gone. 
A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them 
broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, " The Union 
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little 
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that 
looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assem- 
blage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the 
sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peace- 
ful pipe ; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of 
blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with 
a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, "General Washington." 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The 
very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone 
about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquility. He looked in vain for 
the sage Nicholas Yedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds 
of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Yan Bummel, the school-master, doling forth 
the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with 
his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — 
members of Congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which 
were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Yan Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth 
dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the 
tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curios- 
ity. The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired " on which side 
he voted." Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him 
by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether he was Federal or Democrat ?" 




Jlip's Return to His Homb. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 69 

Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self-important old 
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right 
and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm 
akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, in- 
to his .very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, what brought him to the election with a gun 
on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village V 

"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the 
place, and a loyal subject of the King, God bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — "Atory! atory! a spy! a refugee! hus- 
tle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the 
cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again 
of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man 
humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his 
neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

"Well, who are they? Name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
"Where's Nicholas Yedder? " There was a silence for a little while, when an old man re- 
plied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedderl why, he is dead and gone these eighteen 
years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the chureh-yard that used to tell all about him, 
but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher? " 

"Oh, he went off to the army In the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the 
storming of Stony Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. 
I don't know — he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster? " 

" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding 
himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war — Congress — Stony 
Point ; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does no- 
body here know Rip Van Winkle ? " " Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three; " Oh, 
to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain : ap- 
parently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. 
He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of 
his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name? 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ;" I am not myself— I'm somebody else — that's 
me yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell 
asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm 
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their 
fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and 
keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important 
man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, 
comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a 
chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried 
she, "hush, you little fool ; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of 
the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind." IVTiat is 
your name, my good woman ? " asked he, 

"Judith Gardenier." 

*' And your father's name ? " 



70 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



"Ah! poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away 
from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came home without him; 
but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then 
but a little girl." 

Rip had but one more question to ask ; but he put it with a faltering voice : 

" Where's your mother ? " 




Rip's Reception by the Villagers. 



" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at 
a New England peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain 
himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father ! " 
cried he—" young Rip Van Winkle once— old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does nobody know poor 
Rip Van Winkle ? " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to 
her brow, and peering under it in his ftice for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip 
Van Winkle— it is himself I Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been 
these twenty long years ? " 

Washington IK^^NG. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



71 



A SOXG OF LOXG AGO. 

SONG of long ago, 

Sing it lightly — sing it low — 
Sing it softly — like the lisping of the lips we 

used to know 
When our baby — ^laughter spilled 
From the hearts forever tilled 
With a music sweet as robin ever trilled. 

Let the fragrant summer breeze. 

And the leaves of locust trees, 

And the apple buds and blossoms, and the 

wings of honey bees, 
Ail palpitate with glee, 
Till the happy harmony 
Brings back each childish joy to you and me. 

Let the eyes of fancy turn 

Where the tumbled pippins burn 

Like embers in the orchard's lap of tousled 

grass and fern ; 
And let the wayward wind. 
Still singing, plod behind 
The cider press — the good old-fashioned kind I 

Blend in the song the moan 
Of the dove that grieves alone, 
And the wild whirr of the locust, and the bum- 
ble's drowsy drone ; 
And the low of cows that call 
Through the pasture bars when all 
The landscape faints away at evenfall. 

Then, far away and clear. 

Through the dusty atmosphere. 

Let the wailing of the Kildee be the only 

sound you hear. 
Oh, sweet and sad and low 
As the memory may know 
Is the glad, pathetic song of Long Ago ! 

James Whitcomb Riley. 



DOW.Y OX THE SUWAjYjYEE 

RIVER. 

^/*AY down upon the Suwannee river. 
Far, far away. 
There's where my heart is turning ever, 

There where the old folks stay. 
All up and down the whole creation, 

Sadly I roam, 
Still longing for the old plantation 
And for the old folks at home. 

Chorus — All the world is sad and dreary 
5 



Everywhere I roam ; 
O, darkies, how my heart grows weary 
Far from the old folks at home. 

All 'round the little farm I wandered 

When I was young, 
Then many happy days I squandered, 

Many the songs I sung. 
When I was playing with my brother 

Happy was I, 
O, take me to my kind old mother, 

There let me live and die. 

Chorus — All the world, etc. 

One little hut among the bushes. 

One that I love, 
Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes. 

No matter where I rove. 
When will I see the bees a humming 

All 'round the comb, 
When will I hear the banjo tumming, 

Down in my good old home. 

Chorus — All the world is sad and dreary 
Everywhere I roam, 
O, darkies, how my heart grows weary 
Far from the old folks at home. 

Anonymous. 



BEAUTIFUL SXOW. 

§H! the snow, the beautiful snow! 
Filling the sky and the earth below. 
Over the housetops, over the street. 
Over the heads of the people you meet : 
Dancing, 

Flirting, 

Skimming along, 
Beautiful snow ! it can do no wrong, 
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek. 
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak, 
Beautiful snow from the heaven above, 
Pure as an angel, gentle as love ! 

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow ! 
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! 
Whirling about in the maddening fun. 
It plays in its glee with every one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying by. 
It lights on the face and it sparkles the eye, 
And the dogs, with a bark and a bound. 
Snap at the crj'^stals that eddy around : 
The town's alive, and its heart is aglow. 
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow I 



72 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



How wild the crowd goes swaying along. 
Hailing each other with humor and song ; 
How the gay sledges, like meteors, dash by, 
Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing they go. 
Over the cmst of the beautiful snow ; 
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, 
To be trampled in mud by the crowds rush- 
ing by. 
To be trampled and tracked by thousands of 

feet, 
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible 
street. 

Once I was pure as the snow — but I fell ! 
Fell like the snowflakes, from heaven to hell ! 
Fell to be trampled as fllth in the street, 
Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat ; 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading to die. 
Selling my soul to whoever would buy. 
Dealing in shame for morsels of bread. 
Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? 
And yet I was once as the beautiful snow. 

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow% 

With an eye like a crystal, a heart like its 

glow; 
Once I w^as loved for my innocent grace — 
Flattered and sought for the charms of my 

face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters, all, 
God, and myself, I've lost by my fall ; 
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by. 
Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too 

nigh; 
For all that is on or about me, I know 
There is nothing that's pure like the beautiful 

snow. 

How strange it should be that this beautiful 

snow 
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go? 
How strange it would be when the night 
comes again. 
Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying alone, 
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a tooan 



To be heard in the streets of the crazy town, 
Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down, 
To lie, and so die in my terrible woe. 
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow. 

Anonymous. 



'' OH, THAT THIS TOO, TOO SOLID 
FLESH WOULD MELT" 

(From "Hamlet," Act I., Scene 2.) 

MAM. Oh that this too, too solid flesh 
would melt. 
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew ! 
Or, that the Everlasting had not tix'd 
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O 

God! 
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, 
Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden. 
That grows to seed ; things rank, and gross in 

nature, 
Possess it merely. That it should come to 

this! 
But two months dead ! — nay, not so much, not 

two: 
So excellent a king ; that w^as, to this, 
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, 
That he might not beteem the w inds of heav- 
en 
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! 
Must 1 remember ? why, she would hang on 

him, 
As if increase of appetite had grown 
By what it fed on: And yet, within a month, — 
Let me not think on't ; — Frailty, thy name is 

woman ! — 
A little month ; or ere those shoes were old, 
With which she foUow'd my poor father's 

body, 
Like Niobe, all tears ;— why she, even she, — 
O heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of 

reason. 
Would have mourn'd longer !— Married with 

my uncle. 
My father's brother, but no more like my fath- 
er, 
Than I to Hercules ; within a month. 
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, 
She married. O most wicked speed, to post 
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! 
It is not, nor it cannot come to good ; 
But break, my heart, for I must hold mf 
tongue I 

M^'JI^IAM SlIAKSPKRB. 



I 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORKOW. 



73 



green 



SOJYG, 

(From 'As You Like It," Act IT., Scene 7.) 
I. 

LOW, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen. 
Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the 

holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere 
folly : 
Then, heigh, ho, the holly ! 
This life is most jolly. 
II. 
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh. 

As benefits forgot : 
Though thou the waters warp. 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remember' d not. 
Heigh, ho ! sing, heigh, ho ! &c. 

William Shakspere. 



The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? 

The land of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out^ — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 



OM THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY LIMES WBITTEJV BY OKE IJ^ THE 



THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR." 

MissoLONGHi, Jan. 22d, 1824. 
^J^IS time this heart should be unmoved, 

i^ Since others it has ceased to move : 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf ; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
Nor torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — aud 'tis not here — 
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nc 
now^ 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 



TOWER, BEIJfG YOUJ^G AJfD 
COJVDEMJSTED TO DIE. 

[The following poem is made up entirely ot mono- 
syllables: a fact which we do not remember ever seeing 
noted elsewhere.] 

MY prime of youth is but a frost of cares. 
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain : 
My crop of corn is but a field of tares. 

And all my good is but vain hope of gain ; 
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done ! 

The Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung: 
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are 
green ; 

My youth is gone, and yet I am but young ; 
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen ; 

My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done ! 

I sought my death, and found it in my womb; 

I looked for life, and saw it was a shade ; 
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb , 

And now I die, and now I am but made ; 
The glass is fuU, and now my glass is run ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done I 
Chidiock Tychborn. 



74 POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 

JULIET TAKIJ^G THE OPIATE 

(From "Romeo and Juliet," Act IV., Scene 3.) 



%TUL. Farewell ! — God knows when we shall 
(SJ meet again. 

I have a faint cold fear thrills through my 
veins, 



Subtly hath ministered to have me dead ; 
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd, 
Because he married me before to Romeo ? 
I fear, it is : and yet, methinks, it should not, 
For he hath still been tried a holy man : 
I will not entertain so bad a thought.— 
How if, when I am laid into the tomb. 




"The horrible conceit of death and night, 
Together with the terror of the place." 



That almost freezes up the heat of life : 
I'll call them back again to comfort me ; 
Nurse!— What should she do here? 
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.— 
Come, phial. — 

What if this mixture do not work at all? 
Must I of force be married to the county ?— 
No, no ; — this shall forbid it ; — lie thou there. — 
[Laying down a dagger. 
What if it be a poison, which the friar 



I wake before the time that Romeo 

Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point! 

Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, 

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air 

breathes in. 
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? 
Or, if I live, is it not very like, 
The horrible conceit of death and night. 
Together with the terror of the place, — 
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



75 



Where, for these many hundred years, the 

bones 
Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd ; 
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth. 
Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they 

say. 
At some hours in the night spirits resort ; — 
Alack, alack ! is it not like, that I, 
So early waking — what with loathsome smells, 
And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the 

earth, 
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad ; — 
O ! if I wake, shall I not be distraught. 
Environed with all these hideous fears ? 
And madly play with my forefathers' joints ? 
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his 

shroud ? 
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's 

bone. 
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? 
O, look ! methinks, I see my cousin's ghost 
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body 
Upon a rapier's point :— Stay, Tybalt, stay !— 
Romeo, I come I this do I drink to thee. 

[She throws herself on the bed. 
William Shakspere. 



THU MITHERLESS BAIBJf. 

WHEN" a' ither bairnies are hushed to 
their hame 
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grandame, 
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' naebody carin'? 
'Tis the puir doited loonie — the mitherless 
bairn. 



The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed, 
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare 

head ; 
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn. 
An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover 

there, 
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark 

hair; 
But morning brings clutches, a' reckless and 

stern. 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn. 

"X on sister, that sang o'er his saftly rocked 

bed, 
Now rests in the mools where her mammy is 

laid; 
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, 
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on 

earth. 
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn 
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn. 

Oh! speak na him harshly — ^he trembles the 

while. 
He bends to your bidding, an' blesses your 

smile ; 
In their dark hours o' anguish, the heartless 

shall learn. 
That God deals the blow for the mitherless 

bairn I 

WiLLL\M Thorn. 



BESOLATIOJ^ OF BALCLUTEA. 

(From "Fingal.") 

HAVE seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in 
the halls ; and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was re- 
moved from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head : 
the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows ; the rank grass of 
the wall waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina ; silence is in the house of 
her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards ! over the land of strangers. They have but 
fallen before us ; for one day we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged 
days ? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day : yet a few years and the blast of the desert 
comes ; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. And let the 
blast of the desert come ! we shall be renowned in our day ! The mark of my arm shall be in 
battle ; my name in the song of bards. Raise the song, send round the shell ; let joy be heard 
in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail ! if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light I if thy 
brightness is but for a season, like Fingal, our fame shall survive thy beams. Such was the 
song of Fingal in the day of his joy. 

James Macphebson* 



76 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 




*A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread." 



THE SOXG OF THE SHIRT 



WITH fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread. 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, 
She sang the " Song of the Shirt." 

"Work! work! work! 
While the cock is crowing aloof: 

And work, work, work. 
Till the stars shine through the roof : 
It's oh ! to be a slave 
Along with the barbarous Turk, 



Where woman has never a soul to save, 
If this is Christian work ! 

" Work, work, work. 
Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work, work, work. 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam and gusset and band. 

Band and gusset and seam. 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 
And sew them on in a dream ! 

O men with sisters dear! 

O men with mothers and wives! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROWo 



77 



But hnman creatures' liA^es ! 
Stitch, stitch, stitch. 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
Sewing at once, with a double thread. 

A shroud as well as a shirt ! 

But why do I talk of Death ? 

That phantom of grisly bone ? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 

It seems so like my own. 
Because of the fasts I keep ; 

Oh, God ! that bread should be so dear, 
And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

Work, work, work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread, and rags ; 
That shattered roof, and this naked floor, 

A table, a broken chair, 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there. 

Work, work, work! 

From weary chime to chime ; 

Work, w^ork, work, 

As prisoners w^ork for crime : 

Band and gusset and seam. 

Seam and gusset and band. 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 
As well as the weary hand. 

Work, work, work, 
In the dull December light. 

And work, work, work, 



When the weather is warm and bright, 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs. 

And twit me with the spring. 

Oh ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet. 
With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet 5 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal I 



Oh, but for one short hour, 

A respite, however brief! 
Ko blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 

But only time for grief; 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread ! " 



With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread. 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 

Would that its tone could reach the Rich I - 
She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 

Thomas Hood. 






c^4^ 



^<z^ 



yi^ 



o/^ 



^ 






/ 



'^ 







POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



LIFE. 

f^AREWELL Life ! my senses swim, 
And the world is growing dim ; 
Thronging shadows cloud the light 
Like the advent of the night ; 
Colder, colder, colder still, 
Upward steals a vapor chill; 
Strong the earthy odor grows — 
I smell the mould above the rose ! 

Welcome Life ! the Spirit strives ! 
Strength returns and hope revives; 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn ; 
O'er the earth there comes a bloom. 
Sunny light for sullen gloom, 
Warm perfume for vapor cold — 
I smell the rose above the mould ! 

Thomas Hood. 



Had never its fair rainbow. Blessed pain 
That makes us trust our Father, till the way 
Lead heavenw^ard, friend, and we clasp 
hands again. 

AX0XY]M0US. 



FARTIJ^G. 

fASS on ! and leave me standing here alone. 
My soul predicts the future holds for 
thee 
Wealth and the fame of men; it hath for me 
Life's humbler duties. Dear, thy every tone 
Hath made my pathw^ay brighter. No weak 
moan 
Shall pass my lips because my eyes may see 
Thine nevermore on earth ; altho' the tree 
Hang leafless o'er my head that once weigh- 
ed down 
With its abundant harvest. Many a ray 

From out the golden past shines on the.rain; 
But for the storm and tears of life, the day 



BARBARA'S SOMG. 

(From -'OtheUo," Act lY., Scene 1.) 

Y mother had a maid call'd— Barbara ; 
She was in love; and he she lov'd, 
prov'd mad. 
And did forsake her : she had a song of— wil- 
low. 
An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her for- 
tune. 
And she died singing it : That song, to-night. 
Will not go from my mind ; I have much to do. 
But to go hang my head all at one side. 
And sing it like poor Barbara. 

[Singing. 
The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, 

Sing all a green willow ; 
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee. 

Sing willow, ivillow, willow : 
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured 
her moans; 
Sing willow, <fec. 
Her soft tears fell from her, and soften'' d the 
stones ; 

Lay by these : 

Sing willow, willow, willow : 
Pr'ythee, hie thee ; he'll come anon.— 

Sing all a green willow must be my garland. 
Wlllloi Shakspere. 



SECRET SORROWS. 

^^^ (From ''Felix Holt.'") 

HERE is seldom any wrong-doing which does not carry along with it some downfall of 
blindly climbing hopes, some hard entail of suffering, some quickly satiated desire that 
survives, with the life-in-death of old paralytic vice, to see itself cursed by its woeful 
'f progeny ; some tragic mark of kinship in the one brief life to the far-stretching life that 
went before, and to the life that is to come after, such as has raised the pity and terror of men 
ever since they began to discern between will and destiny. But these things are often un- 
known to the world ; for there is much pain that is quite noiseless ; and vibrations that make 
human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances 
of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder ; robberies that leave man or woman forever 
beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer ; committed to no sound except 
that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow 
months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has 
marred a life has been breathed into no human ear. 

Marian Evans Cross. 

(•'George Eliot.") 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



79 



SATUBJf AJfD THE A. 

(From "Hyperion.") 

^EEP in the shady sadness of a vale 

J2/ Far sunken from the healthy breath of 

morn, 
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, 



Robs not one light seed from the feathered 

grass. 
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened 

more 
By reason of his fallen divinity 




f{n^ fuoM 



Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone. 
Still as the silence round about his lair ; 
Forest on forest hung about his head 
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, 
Not so much life as on a summer's day 



Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 
Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips. 
Along the margin sand large footmarks 
went 
No further than to where his feet had strayed, 



80 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



And slept there since. Upon the sodden 

ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred; and his reahnless eyes were 

closed ; 
While his bowed head seemed listening to the 

earth. 
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 
It seemed no force could w^ake him from his 

place ; 
But there came one, who with a kindred 

hand 
Touched his wide shoulders, after bending 

low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it 

not. 
She was a goddess of the infant world ; 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 
Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have 

ta'en 
Achilles by the hair, and bent his neck ; 
Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel. 
Her face was large as that of Memphian 

sphinx. 
Pedestaled haply in a palace court, 
When sages looked to Egypt for their lore. 
But oh ! how unlike marble was that face ! 
How beautiful, if soitow had not made 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self I 
There w^as a listening fear in her regard. 
As if calamity had but begun ; 
As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
Was, with its stored thunder, laboring up. 
One hand she pressed upon that aching spot 
Where beats the human heiirt, as if just there. 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain; 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she 

spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ tone ; 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble 

tongue 
Would come in these like accents — oh! how 

frail 
To that large utterance of the early gods! — 
"Saturn, look up! though wherefore, poor old 

king? 
I cannot say, 'O wherefore sleepest thou ? ' 
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 
Knows thee not, thus afHicted, for a god ; 
And ocean, too, with all its solemn noise, 
Has from thy sceptre passed, and all the air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 



Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house. 
And thy sharp lightning in unpracticed hands 
Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
O aching time! O moments big as years! 
All, as ye pass, swell out the monstrous truth, 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 
That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn, sleep on ! Oh, thoughtless, why did I 
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
Why should I ope my melancholy eyes ? 
Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep." 
As when, upon a tranced summer night, 
Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, 
TaU oaks, branched-charmed by the earnest 

stars, 
Dream, and so dream aU night without a stir. 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave ; 
So came these words and went. 

JoHX Keats. 



10 ricTis. 

SINGr the hymn of the conquered who fell 

in the battle of life, — 
The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who 

died overwhelmed in the strife ; 
Not the jubilant song of the victors, for 

whom the resounding acclaim 
Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows 

wore the chaplet of fame. 
But the hymn of the low and the humble, the 

weary, the broken in heart. 
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a 

silent and desperate part ; 
Whose youth bore no flower on Its branches, 

whose hope burned in ashes away. 
From whose hands slipped the prize they had 

grasped at, who stood at the dying of 

day 
With the wreck of their life all around them 

unpitied, unheeded, alone. 
With death sweeping down o'er their failure, 

and all but their faith overthrown. 
While the voice of the world shouts the 

chorus, — its paean for those who have 

w^on : 
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, 

and high to the breeze and the sun 
Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, 

and hurrying feet 
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I 

stand on the field of defeat, 



POtm OF JOY AND SORROW. 



81 



In the shadow, with those who are fallen, 
and wounded and dying, and there 

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their 
pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer. 

Hold the hand that is helpless and whisper, 
" They only the victory win. 

Who have fought the good fight and have van- 
quished the demon that tempts us 
within ; 

Who have held to their faith unseduced by 
the prize that the world holds on high ; 

Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, re- 
sist, fight — if need be to die." 

Speak, History ! who are Life's victors ? Un- 
roll thy long annals, and say. 

Are they those whom the world called the 
victors — who won the success of a day? 

The martyrs, or ^N'ero? The Spartans who 
fell at Thermopylae's tryst, 

Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or 
Socrates? Pilate, or Christ ? 

William Wetmore Story. 



That the wind came out of the cloud by 
night, 
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 



AJVJVABEL LEE. 

T was many and many a year ago. 
In a kingdom by the sea. 
That a maiden there lived whom you may 
know 
By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 



I was a child and she was a child. 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than 
love, 

I and my Annabel Lee ; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago. 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me. 
To shut her up in a sepulcher 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes, that was the reason — as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea — 



But our love it was stronger far than the 

Of those that were older than we. 

Of many far wiser than we. 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

N^or the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 



love 




" — a maiden there lived whom 5^ou may know 
By the name of Annabel Lee." 

For the moon never beams without bringing 
me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright 
eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the 

side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my 
bride, 
In the sepulcher there by the sea, 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



FLORENCE VAjYE. 

1 LOVED thee long and dearly, 
I Florence Vane. 

My life's bright dream and early 
Hath come again ; 



82 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



I renew in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain, 

My hope, and thy derision, 
Florence Vane ! 

The ruin lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst mark my story, 

At even told, 
That spot, the hues elysian 

Of sky and plain, 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane ! 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime. 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme. 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lies the green sod under — 

Alas the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain. 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane ! 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep ; 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane. 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 
Philip Pendleton Cooke. 



" HOME THE Y BRO UGHT HER 
WARRIOR DEAD/' 

(From " The Princess.") 

MOME they brought her warrior dead ; 
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; 
All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep, or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Called him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 



Stole a maiden from her place. 
Lightly to the warrior stepped. 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 

Set his child upon her knee ; 
Like summer tempest came her tears : 

" Sweet my child, I live for thee !" 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE OLD ARM CHAIR, 

love it, I love it, and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? 

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it 
with sighs ; 

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 

Would ye learn the spell? A mother sat 
there, 

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 



In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat with listening ear ; 

And gentle words that a mother would give. 

To fit me to die and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide. 

With truth for my creed, and God for my 

guide ; 
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and v*atched her many a day. 

When her eye grew dim and her locks were 

gray, 
And I almost worshiped her when she 

smiled. 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
Years rolled on, but the last one sped ; 
My idol was shattered, my earth star fled ; 
I learned how much the heart can bear. 
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

'Tis past ! 'tis past I but I gaze on it now 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow ; 
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she 

died. 
And memory flows like lava-tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
While the scalding drops start down my 

cheek ; 
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 

EuzA Cook. 



i 



M 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORKOW. 



LUCY. 
^HE dwelt among the untrodden ways 
)5) Beside the springs of Dove — 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 
And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone, 

Half hidden from the eye- 
Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and oh ! 

The diiference to me ! 

William Wordsworth. 



LOJVGIJVG FOB DEATH. 

(From "The Emperor of the East.") 

M^CHY art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, 

(ilD Death, 

To stop a w retch's breath ? 

That calls on thee, and o£Fers her sad heart, 

A prey unto thy dart ? 

I am nor young nor fair ; be therefore bold ; 

Sorrow hath made me old. 

Deformed, and wrinkled ; all that I can crave^ 

Is quiet in ray grave. 

Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel ; 

But to me thou art cruel. 

If thou end not my tedious misery. 

And I soon cease to be. 

Strike, and strike home, then ; pity unto me. 

In one short hour's delay, is tyranny. 

Philip Massinger. 



SOMEBODY'S DABLIKG. 

(It is said that the author of this popular poem wished 
to remain uuknowu. It was first published in the 
'•Southern Churchman," her name bein,sr attached with- 
out her knowledjre. W^hile it may be a matter of wonder 
that slie has never written anything else, it may be con- 
jectured that her wishes have not been disregarded in re- 
spect to other poems.) 

INTO a ward of the whitewashed walls, 
f Where the dead and dying lay. 
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls. 

Somebody's Darling was borne one day. 
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave. 

Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face. 
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave. 

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; 



Pale are the lips of delicate mould : 
Somebody's Darling is dying now. 

Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow 
Brush all the wandering waves of gold. 

Cross his hands on his bosom now : 
Somebody's Darling is still and cold. 

Kiss him once for Somebody's sake ; 

Murmur a prayer soft and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates take, 

They were Somebody's pride, you know ; 
Somebody's hand had rested there : 

Was it a mother's, soft and white ? 
And have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in those waves of light ? 

God knows best ; he was Somebody's love ; 

Somebody's heart enshrined him there ; 
Somebody wafted his name above 

Night and morn on the wings of prayer ; 
Somebody wept when he marched aw^ay. 

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ; 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay. 

Somebody clung to his parting hand. 

Somebody's waiting and w^atching for him. 

Yearning to hold him again to the heart ; 
And there he lies, with his blue eyes dim, 

And the smiling childlike lips apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; 
Carve on the wooden slab at his head : 

" Somebody's Darling slumbers here." 

Marie R. Lacoste. 



VAJflSHED BLESSIjYGS. 

fHE voice which I did more esteem 
Than music in her sweetest key. 
Those eyes which unto me did seem 

More comfortable than the days 
Those now by me, as they have been. 
Shall nevermore be heard or seen ; 
But what I once enjoyed in them 
Shall seem hereafter as a dream. 

All earthly comforts vanish thus ; 

So little hold of them have we. 
That we from them, or they from us, 

May in a moment ravished be. 
Yet we are neither just nor wise, 
If present mercies we despise. 
Or mind not how there may be made 
A thankful use of what we had. 

- George Wither. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



85 



THE BLIKB OLD MILTOX. 

(Sometimes attributed to Milton.) 

AM old and blind! 
Men men point at me as smited 
by God's frown, 
Afflicted and deserted of my kind — 
Yet I am not cast down. 

I am weak, yet strong — 
I murmur not that I no longer see — 
Poor, old and helpless, I more belong, 

Father Supreme I to Thee ! 

merciful one ! 

When men are farthest, then Thou art most 

near; 
When friends pass by — my weakness shun — 
Thy chariot I hear. 

Thy glorious face 
Is leaning toward me — and its holy light 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place. 

And there is no more night. 

On my bended knee 
I recognize Thy purpose closely shown — 
My vision Thou hast dimmed that I may see 

Thyself, Thyself alone. 

1 have naught to fear ; 

This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing- 
Beneath it I am almost sacred — here 
Can come no evil thing. 

Oh ! I seem to stand 
Trembling where foot of mortal ne'er hath 

been, 
Wrapped in the radiance of Thy sinless land 

Which eye hath never seen. 

Visions come and go — 
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me 

throng — 
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow — 
Of soft and holy song. 

It is nothing now. 
When heaven is op'ning on my sightless eyes. 
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, 

That earth in darkness lies. 

In a purer clime, 
My being fills with rapture — waves of 
thought 



Roll in upon my spirits — strains sublime 



Give me now my lyre I 
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine, 
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, 

Lit by no will of mine. 

Elizabeth Lloyd Ho^^^ELL. 



MIGRATIOjY. 

J^HE caged bird that all the autumn day 
"P> In quiet dwells, when falls the autumn 
eve 
Seeks how its liberty it may achieve, 
Beats at the wires, and its poor wings doth 

fray; 
For now desire of migrant change holds 
sway; 
This summer- vacant land it longs to leave 
While its free peers on tireless pinions 
cleave 
The haunted twilight, holding south their 

way. 
Xot otherwise than as the prisoned bird 
We here dwell careless of our captive state 
Until light dwindles, and the year grows 
late. 
And answering note to note no more is heard ; 
Then, our loved fellows gone, the soul is 
stirred 
To follow them where summer has no date. 
Edith M. Thomas. 



DIRGE, 

(The first eight lines of this Dirge were inscribed upon 
the tomb of the poet herself.) 

/^ALM on the bosom of thy God, 
>^ Fair spirit, rest thee now ! 
Even while with us thy footstep trod, 
His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow home beneath! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

May no more fear to die. 



Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 
Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 

But oh, a brighter home than ours. 
In heaven is now thine own ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORKOW. 



87 



THE HIGH TIDE OX THE COAST 

OF LIJYCOIJfSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

f HE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
The ringers ran by two, by three ; 
" Pull ; if ye never pulled before, 

Good ringers pull your best," quoth he. 
" Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells. 
Play uppe " The Brides of Enderby !" 

Men say it was a stolen tide ; 

The Lord that sent it he know^s all ; 
But in myne ears doth still abide 

The message that the bells let fall ; 
And there was naught of strange, beside 
The flights of mews and peewits pied 

By millions crouched on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore. 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; 
The level sun, like ruddy ore. 

Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
And dark against day's golden death, 
She moved w^here Lindis wandereth, 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cushal Cusha! Cusha!" calling. 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
" Cushal Cusha ! " all along 

Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 
Floweth, Floweth; 

From the meads where melick groweth. 
Faintly came her milking song. 

"Cushal Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falling ; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 

From the clovers lift your head ; 

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 

Jetty, to the milking shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago. 
When I begin to think how long. 

Again I heare the Lindis flow. 

Swift as an arrow, sharp and strong. 

And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 
6 



Bin full of floating bells, sayth shee. 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

AUe fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadow mote be scene. 

Save where, full fyve good miles away. 
The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo 1 the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in alle the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath. 

The shepherd e lads I hearde afarre. 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till floating o'er that grassy sea 

Came down that kyndly message free. 

The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky. 

And all along where liindis flows 
To where the goodly vessels lie. 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 
They sayde : " And why should this thing be? 
What danger lowers by land or sea ? 
They ring the tune of Enderby ! 
For evil news from Mablethorpe 

Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe. 

They have not spared to wake the tow^ne ; 
But while the west bin red to see. 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee. 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ? " 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main ; 

He raised a shout as he drew on. 
Till all the welkin rang again : 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The olde sea wall," he cried, "is downe. 

The rising tide comes on apace. 
And boats adrift in yonder to wne 

Go sailing iippe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
" God save you, mother," straight he saith, 
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" 

" Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away. 
With her two bairns I marked her long ; 

And ere yon bells beganne to play, 
Afarre I heard her milking song." 

He looked across that grassy lea, 



88 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby !". 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby." 

AVith that he cried and beat his breast ; 

For lo ! along the river's bed, 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud ; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed. 
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 

Then madly at the eygre's breast 
Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 

Then bankes came doAvn with ruin and rout ; 

Then beaten foam flew round about ; 

Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobbed in the grasses at our feet ; 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee. 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sat that night, 

The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from tlie church tower, red and high, 

A lurid mark and dread to see; 

And awsome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang "Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side ; 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed. 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath: 

" O come in life, or come in death, 

O lost! my love, Elizabeth ! " 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Down drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass. 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and me ; 

But each will mourn his own, she suith, 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 



I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
Ere the early dew^s be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
" Cusha I Cusha !" all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth. 
When the water w^inding down. 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 
Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 

Sobbing, throbbing in its falling 
To the sandy, lonesome shore ; 

I shall never hear her calling : 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow ; 
Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

JiL\N Ingelow. 



THE DEATH-BED. 
V®^,#'E watched her breathing through the 



night. 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak. 

So slowly moved about. 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears. 

Our fears our hopes belied ; 
We thought her dying Avhen she slept. 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad 
And chill with early showers. 

Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



« 






90 POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 

LIJ^ES. 

WHEX last the raaple-bud was swelling, Sweet odors on the air of spring, 

When last the crocus bloomed below, In forest aisles thy voice was ringing, 

Thy heart to mine its love was telling. Where thou didst with the red-bird sing; 

Thy soul Avith mine kept ebb and flow ; Again the April bloom is flinging 
Again the maple-bnd is swelling. Sweet odors on the air of spring, 

Again the crocus blooms below ; But now in heaven thy voice is ringing. 
In heaven thy heart its love is telling. Where thou dost with the angels sing. 

But still oar souls keep ebb and flow. \VTTTT»,r t\ n . 

„^, ,.,,..,,, ^ r,. . William D. Gallagher. 

When last the April bloom was flmgmg 



m 



THE VOICE OF THE WAVES. 

(From ''Dombey & Son") 

WAKING suddenly, he listened, started up, and sat listening. Florence asked him 
what he thought he heard. 

want to know what it says," he answered, looking steadily in her face. " The 
sea, Floy, what is it that it keeps on saying?" She told him that it was only the 
noise of the rolling waves. 

" Yes, yes," he said. " But I know that they are always saying something. Always the 
same thing. What place is over there ? " He rose up looking eagerly at the horizon. 

She told him that there was another country opposite, but he said he didn't mean that ; he 
meant farther away — farther away ! 

Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break oflf, to try to understand 
what it was that the waves were always saying; and would rise up in his couch to look to- 
wards that invisible region, far away. 

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came stream- 
ing in, and fell upon them, locked together. 

"How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near 
the sea. I hear the waves ! They always said so ! " 

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. 
How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers growing on them, and how tall the 
rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore 
before him. Who stood on the bank ! — 

He put his hands together, as he had been used to do, at his prayers. He did not remove 
his arms to do it ; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck. 

"Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face ! But tell them that the print upon the 
stairs at school, is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go ! " 

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The 
old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged 
until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, 
old fashion — Death ! 

Oh thank God, aU who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality ! And look upon 
us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us 
to the ocean, * 

ClIARLES DiCKENSf 



i 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



91 



THE BISAFTOIKTEB. 

JTRHERE are songs enough for the hero, 
•Js) Who dwells on the heights of fame ; 
I sing for the disappointed, 
For those who missed their aim. 

I sing with a tearful cadence 
For one who stands in the dark, 

And knows that his last, best arrow 
Has bounded back from the mark. 

I sing for the breathless runner. 

The eager, anxious soul. 
Who falls with his strength exhausted 

Almost in sight of the goal ; 

For the hearts that break in silence 

With a sorrow all unknown ; 
For those who need companions, 

Yet walk their ways alone. 

There are songs enough for the lovers 

Who share love's tender pain ; 
I sing for the one whose passion 

Is given and in vain. 

For those whose spirit comrades 
Have missed them on the way, 

I sing with a heart o'erflowing 
This minor strain to-day. 

And I know the solar system 
Must somewhere keep in space 

A prize for that spent runner 
Who barely lost the race. 

For the Plan would be imperfect 

Unless it held some sphere 
That paid for the toil and talent 

And love that are wasted here. 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 



TBE APPLES ARE RIPE IJV THE 
ORCHARD. 

fHE apples are ripe in the orchard. 
The work of the reaper is done, 
And the golden woodlands redden 

In the blood of the dying sun. 
At the cottage door the grandsire 

Sits, pale, in his easy chair, 
While the gentle wind of twilight 
Plays with his silver hair. 

A woman is kneeling beside him, 

A fair young form is pressed. 
In the first wild passion of sorrow, 

Against his aged breast ; 
And far from over the distance 

The faltering echoes come 
Of the flying blast of the trumpet. 

And the rattling roll of the drum. 

Then the grandsire speaks in a whisper : 

" The end no man can see ; 
But we give him to his country, 

And we give our prayers to thee ! " 
The violets star the meadows. 

The rosebuds fringe the door. 
While over the grassy orchard 

The pink-white blossoms pour. 

But the grandsire's chair is empty. 

The cottage is dark and still ; 
There's a nameless grave on the battle-field, 

And a new one under the hill ; 
And a pallid tearless woman 

Bj the cold hearth sits alone, 
And the old clock in the corner 

Ticks on with a steady drone. 

W1LLL4.M Winter. 



MISSHAPED LIVES. 

(From "Mr. GilfiPs Love-Story.") 

T is with men as with trees ; if you lop off their finest branches, into w^hich they were 
pouring their young life-juice, the wounds will be healed over with some rough boss, some 
odd excresence ; and w^hat might have been a grand tree expanding into liberal shade, is 
but a whimsical misshapen trunk. Many an irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, has 
come of a hard sorrow, which has crushed and maimed the nature just when it was expand- 
ing into plenteous beauty ; and the trivial erring life which we visit with our harsh blame, 
may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limb is withered. 

Marian Evans Cross. 

C' George Eliot.") 



1l 







. 1 



~^ 





POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



93 




'* The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
And all alone went she." 



THE SAJVDS OF DEE. 



* *^\ MARY, go and call the cattle home, 
Vi^ And call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home. 
Across the sands of Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank with 
foam. 
And all alone went she. 



The creeping tide crept up along the sand. 
And o'er and o'er the sand. 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see. 
The Winding mist came down and hid the 
land ; 
And never home came she. 







To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
Across the sands of Dee." 



94 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



" Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, 
A tress of golden hair, 
A drowned maiden's hair, 
Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 
The cruel crawling foam. 
The cruel hungry foam, 
To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle 
home 
Across the sands of Dee. 

Charles Kingsley. 



BEYOKD THE VEIL. 

J^HEY are all gone into the world of light, 

P And I alone sit lingering here ; 

Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove. 

Or those faint beams in which this hill is 
dressed, 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory. 
Whose light doth trample on my days ; 

My days, which are at best but dull and 
hoary, 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy Hope ! and high Humility ! 

High as the heavens above! 
These are your walks, and you have showed 
them me 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just. 
Shining nowhere but in the dark. 

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
Could man outlook that mark. 

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest 
may know. 

At first sight. If the bird be flown ; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 

That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 
Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 



So some strange thoughts transcend our wont- 
ed themes, 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb. 
Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 

But when the hand that locked her up gives 
room. 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under thee. 
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 

Into true liberty ! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and 
fill 
My perspective still as they pass, 
Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
Where I shall need no glass I 

Henry Yaughan. 



DIRGE FOE A YOVXG GIRL. 

fNDERNEATH the sod low-lying, 
Dark and drear, 
Sleepeth one who left, in dying 
Sorrow here. 

Yes, they're ever bending o'er her, 

Eyes that weep ; 
Forms, that to the cold grave bore her. 

Vigils keep. 

"V\Tien the summer moon is shining 

Soft and fair. 
Friends she loved in tears are twirang 

Chaplets there. 

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit. 

Throned above ! 
Souls like thine with God inherit 

Life and love ! 

James T. Fields. 



SOKG. 

IF I had thought thou could'st have died, 
i I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou could'st mortal be. 
It never through my mind had passed 

That time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou should'st smile no more. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



95 



And still upon that face I look, 

And think 'twill smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook 

That I must look in vain. 
But when I speak thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; 
And now I feel, as well I may. 

Sweet Mary, thou art dead ! 

If thou would'st stay e'en as thou art, 

All cold, and all serene, 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been ! 
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own ; 
But there— I lay thee in thy grave. 

And I am now alone. 

I do not think, where'er thou art. 

Thou hast forgotten me; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart. 

In thinking still of thee ; 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before. 
As fancy never could have drawn. 

And never can restore. 

Charles Wolfe. 



TO MART IK HEAVEK. 

fHOU lingering star, with lessening ray, 
That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher' st In the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary I dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget ? 

Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past, 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; 

The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar 
Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, 



The birds sang love on every spray. 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear departed shade 1 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
Robert Burns. 



A FAREWELL. 

/^OME not to my grave with your mourn- 
V§^ ings. 
With your lamentations and tears. 
With your sad forebodings and fears ; 
When ray lips are dumb. 
Do not come ! 

Bring no long train of carriages, 
No hearse crowned with waving plumes. 
Which the gaunt glory of Death illumes ; 
But with hands on my breast 
Let me rest. 

If, in my fair youth time, attended 
By hope and delight every day, 
I could spurn the sweet baseness of clay, 
Can you honor me, try 
TiU you die ? 

Insult not my dust with your pity, 
Ye who're left on this desolate shore. 
Still to suffer and lose and deplore — 
'Tis I should, as I do. 
Pity you. 

For me no more are the hardships, 
The bitterness, heartaches and strife, 
The sadness and sorrow of life. 
But the glory divine — 
This is mine I 

Poor creatures ! Afraid of the darkness, 
Who groan at the anguish to come, 
How silent I go to my home ! 
Cease your sorrowful bell ; 
I am well. 

Marc Eugene Cook. 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORROW. 




• Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands 
For those who will never come back to the town. 



I 




1»0EMS or* JOt^ AKD SORROW. 



07 



THE THREE FISHERS. 

[^HREE fishers went sailing oat into the 
F west, 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Each thought on the woman who loved him 
the best, 
And the children stood watching them out 
of the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep. 
And there's little to earn, and many to keep. 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower. 
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun 
went down. 
They looked at the squall, and they looked at 
the shower. 
And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged 
and brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep. 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went 
down. 
And the women are weeping and wringing 
their hands 
For those who will never come back to the 
town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep. 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 
Charles Kingsley. 



SOJ{MET. 

WHAT doth it serve to see sun's burning 
face. 
And skies enameled with both Indies' gold ? 
Or moon at night in jetty chariot rolled, 
And all the glory of that starry place ? 

What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold, 
The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery 
grace. 
The stately comeliness of forest old. 
The sport of floods, which would themselves 

embrace ? 
What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs. 
The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad 
strains 
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my 

wrongs ? 
For what doth serve all that this world con- 
tains, 



Sith she, for whom these once to me were 

dear, 
No part of them can have now with me here ? 
William Drummond. 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 

(Baltimore is a small seaport in South Munster, Ireland. 
On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys 
landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and 
bore off into slavery all who were "not too old, or too 
young, or too fierce," for their purpose. The pirates 
were steered up the intricate channel by a fisherman, 
whom they had taken at sea.) 

fW^HE summer sun is falling soft on Car- 

W berry's hundred isles ; 
The summer sun is gleaming still through 

Gabriel's rough defiles ; 
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a 

moulting bird ; 
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean-tide 

is heard ; 
The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children 

cease their play ; 
The gossips leave the little inn ; the house- 
holds kneel to pray ; 
And full of love, and peace, and rest, its daily 

labor o'er. 
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of 

Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with 

midnight there, 
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in 

earth, or sea, or air ; 
The massive capes and ruined towers seem 

conscious of the calm ; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breath- 
ing heavy balm. 
So still the night, those two long barques 

round Dunashad that glide, 
Must trust their oars, methinks not few, 

against the ebbing tide ; 
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must 

urge them to the shore, 
They bring some lover to his bride, who 

sighs in Baltimore. 

All, all asleep within each roof along that 

rocky street, 
And these must be the lover's friends with 

gently gliding feet ; 
A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! " The roof is 

in a flame ! " 
From out their beds and to their doors rush 

maid and sire and dame, 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



And meet upon the threshold's stone the 
gleaming saber's fall, 

And o'er each black and bearded face the 
white or crimson shawl ; 

The yell of " Allah ! " breaks above the prayer 
and shriek and roar ; 

Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine Is lord of Bal- 
timore ! 

Then flung the youth his naked hand against 

the shearing sword ; 
Then sprang the mother on the brand with 

which her son was gored ; 
Then sank the grandsire on the floor, his 

grand-babes clutching wild ; 
Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and 

nestled with the child. 
But see ! yon pirate strangled lies, and 

crushed, with splashing heel, 
While o'er him, in an Irish hand, there sweeps 

his Syrian steel ; 
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and 

misers yield their store, 
There's one heart well avenged in the sack of 

Baltimore ! 

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds 

begin to sing ; 
They see not now the milking-maids, deserted 

is the spring ; 
Midsummer day, this gallant rides from dis- 
tant Bandon's town, 
Those hookers crossed from stormy Skull, the 

skiff" from Affadowm ; 
They only found the smoking walls with 

neighbors' blood bespent, 
And on the strewed and trampled beach 

awhile they wildly went ; 
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, 

and saw five leagues before 
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged 

Baltimore. 

Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some 

must tend the steed. 
This boy will bear a sheik's chibouk, and 

that a bey's jerreed. 
Oh! some are for the arsenals by beauteous 

Dardanelles, 
And some are in the caravans to Mecca's 

sandy dells. 
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is 

chosen for the Dey ; 
She's safe ! she's dead ! she's stabbed him in 

the midst of his serai I 



And when to die the death of fire that noble 

maid they bore. 
She only smiled— O'Driscoll's child: She 

thought of Baltimore I 

'Tis two long years since sank the town be- 
neath that bloody band, 
And all around its trampled hearths a larger 

concourse stand, 
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling 

wretch is seen — 
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvion, he who steered 

the Algerine ! 
He fell amid a suUen shout, with scarce a 

passing prayer. 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a 

hundred there. 
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who had 

brought the l^orman o'er. 
Some cursed him w^ith Iscariot, that day in 

Baltimore. 

Thomas Davis. 



THE DEAD MARIJ^ER. 

^LEEP on — sleep on — above thy corse 
® The winds their Sabbath keep — 
The wave is round thee, and thy breast 

Heaves with the heaving deep ; 
O'er thee mild eve her beauty flings. 
And there the white gull lifts her wings, 
And the blue halcyon loves to lave 
Her plumage in the holy wave. 

Sleep on — no willow o'er thee bends 

With melancholy air ; 
No violet springs, nor dewy rose 

Its soul of love lays bare ; 
But there the sea-flower, bright and young. 
Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung. 

And like a weeping mourner fair. 

The pale flag hangs its tresses there. 

Sleep on — sleep on — the glittering depths 

Of ocean's coral caves 
Are thy bright urn, thy requiem. 

The music of its waves ; 
The purple gems forever burn 
In fadeless beauty round thy urn. 

And pure and deep as infant love. 

The blue sea rolls its waves above. 

Sleep on — sleep on — the fearful wrath. 
Of mingling cloud and deep 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



99 



May leave its wild and stormy track 

Above thy place of sleep ; 
But wlien the wave has sunk to rest, 
As now, 't will murmur o'er thy breast, 
And the bright victims of the sea 
Perchance will make their home with thee. 

Sleep on — thy corse is far away, 

But love bewails thee yet : 
For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed. 

And lovely eyes are wet ; 
And she, thy young and beauteous bride. 
Her thoughts are hovering by thy side. 

As oft she turns to view with tears 

The Eden of departed years. 

George D. Pkentice. 




George D. Prentice. 



THE PICKET-GUARD. 

** n LL quiet along the Potomac," they say, 
Mi. " Except now and then, a stray picket 

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, 
By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 

'Tis nothing! a private or two, now and then, 
WiU ftpt count in th^ news of th^ battle j 



Not an officer lost ; only one of the men. 
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; 
Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn 
moon 
Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleam- 
ing. 
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping, 
While stars, up above, with their glittering 
eyes 
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's 
tread, 
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain. 
And thinks of the two in that low trundle- 
bed, 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim. 

Grows gentle with memories tender. 
As he mutters a prayer for the children 
asleep ; 
For their mother, may Heaven defend her ! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as 
then, 
That night, when the love, yet unspoken. 
Leaped up to his lips, when low-murmured 
vows 
Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his 
eyes. 
He dashes off tears that are welling, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place. 
As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree ; 

The footstep is lagging and weary, 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt 
of light, 
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. 
Hark I was it the night-wind that rustled the 
leaves ? 
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
It looked like a rifle — "Oh, Mary, good-bye ! " 
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 
All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
No sound save the rush of the river ; 
While soft falls the dew on the face of the 
dead — 
The picket's off duty forever ! 

Mrs, Ethel Lynn Beers, 



100 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 




" Not there ! where, then, is he ? 
The form I used to see." 



J CANNOT make him dead ! 

1' His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round ray study chair ; 

Yet, when my eyes, now dim 

With tears, I turn to him, 
Tli^ vision vanishes ^ he is not there ! 



MT CHILD. 

(From ''The Departed Child.") 

I walk my parlor floor. 



And through tlie open door 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 

I'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that he is not there. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



101 



I thread the crowded street ; 

A satcheled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and colored 
hair ; 

And, as he's running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 
Scarcely believing that he is not there. 

I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid ; 
Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt, 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that he is not there. 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that he is not there. 

When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I w ake. 
With my first breathing of the morning air. 

My soul goes up, with joy. 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought that he is not 
there. 

When, at the day's calm close. 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though he is not there. 

Not there! IVTiere, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear ; 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress. 
Is but his wardrobe locked — he is not there. 

He lives ! In all the past 

He lives ; nor till the last 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now. 

And on his angel brow 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there !" 

Yes, we all live to God ! 
Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear. 
That, in the spirit land, 
Meeting at thy right hand, 



'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there I 
John Pierpoxt. 



SELECTIO.YS FROM "LK MEM- 
ORIAM." 

SOMETIMES feel it half a sin 
To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal. 
And half conceal the soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er. 
Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
But that large grief which these enfold 

Is given in outline, and no more. 



Do we indeed desire the dead 
Should still be near us at our side ? 
Is there no baseness we would hide. 

No inner vileness than we dread ? 

Should he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame. 
See with clear eye some hidden shame ; 

And I be lessened in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue ; 

Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? 

There must be wisdom with great Death ; 
The dead shall look me through and through. 

Be near us when w^e climb or fall ; 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger, other eyes than ours. 

To make allowance for us all. 



Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood. 

That nothing walks with aimless feet. 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete. 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shriveled in a fruitless fire ; 

Or but subserves another's gain, 



102 



POEMS OF JOY AND SOEROW. 



Behold, we know not anything ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 

At last, far off, at last, to all, 
And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream ; but what am I? 
An infant crying in the night, 
An infant crying for the light. 

And with no language but a cry. 

***** 

What hope Is here for modern rhyme 
To him who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 

Foreshortened in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 
May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks, 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane, 

A man upon a stall may find. 

And, passing, turn the page that tells 
A grief, then changed to something else. 

Sung by a long forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darkened ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe my loss is more than fame. 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 
***** 

This truth came borne with bier and pall, 
I felt it when I sorrowed most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all. 



Whatever way my days decline, 

I feel and felt, though left alone. 

His being working in my own. 
The footsteps of his life in mine. 

***** 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind. 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 
***** 

You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies. 

You tell me, Doubt is devil-born. 

I know not ; one indeed I knew, 
In many a subtle question versed. 
Who touched a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true. 



Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds. 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gathered strength ; 

He would not make his judgment blind ; 

He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid them ; thus he came, at length. 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 
And Power was with him in the night, 
Which makes the darkness and the light, 

And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud. 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold. 

Although the trumpet blew so loud. 



Unwatched, the garden bough shall sway. 
The tender blossom flutter down. 
Unloved, that beech will gather brown. 

This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair. 
Bay round with flames her disk of seed. 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar. 
The brook shall babble down the plain. 
At noon, or when the Lesser Wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove. 

And flood the haunts of hern and crake ; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow. 

And year by year the landscape grow 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty night ; 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



103 



Eing out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, - 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes. 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old ; 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, — 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

***** 

The churl in spirit, up or down 
Along the scale of ranks, through all. 
To him who grasps a golden ball. 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's sake. 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons through the gilded pale. 

For who can always act ? But he. 
To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seemed to be, 

Best seemed the thing he was ; and joined 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind. 

Nor ever narrowness or spite. 
Or viUain fancy fleeting by, 
7 



Drew in the expression of an eye 
Where God and nature met in light. 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman. 
Defamed by every charlatan, 

And soiled with all ignoble use. 

Alfred Tennyson. 




" Softly woo away her breath." 

SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER 

BREATH. 

^OFTLY woo away her breath, 
>lj) Gentle Death I 

Let her leave thee with no strife. 
Tender, mournful, murmuring Life : 
She hath seen her happy day ; 

She hath had her bud and blossom ; 
Now she pales and shrinks away, 
Earth, into thy gentle bosom I 

She hath done her bidding here. 

Angels dear I 
Bear her perfect soul above, 
Seraph of the skies, sweet Love ! 
Good she was, and fair in youth, 

And her mind was seen to soar. 
And her heart was wed to truth ; 
Take her, then, forevermore. 
Forever, evermore ! 

Bryan W, Procter, 



104 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



FARTIJ^'G AKB DEATH. 

(From ' 'JSIichael Angelo.") 

fARTING with friends is temporary death, 
As all death is. We see no more their 

faces, 
Nor hear their voices, save In memory ; 
But messages of love give us assurance 
That we are not forgotten. Who shall say 
That from the world of spirits, comes no 

greeting, 
No message of remembrance ? It may be 
The thoughts that visit us, we know not 

whence. 
Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers 
Of disembodied spirits, speaking to us 
As friends, who wait outside a prison wall. 
Through the barred windows speak to those 

within. 

As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me. 
As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, 
As quiet as a heart that beats no more. 
This convent seems. Above, below, all peace : 
Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends, 
Are with me here, and the tumultuous world 
Makes no more noise than the remotest planet. 
O gentle spirit, unto the third circle 
Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, 
Who living in the faith and dying for it. 
Have gone to their reward, I do not sigh 
For thee as being dead, but for myself 
That I am still alive. Turn those dear eyes, 
Once so benignant to me, upon mine, 
That open to their tears such uncontrolled 
And such continual issue. Still awhile 
Have patience ; I will come to thee at last. 
A few more goings in and out these doors, 
A few more chimings of these convent bells, 
A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears. 
And the long agony of this life will end. 
And I shall be with thee. If I am wanting 
To thy well-being, as thou art to mine. 
Have patience ; I will come to thee at last. 
Ye minds that loiter in these cloister gardens. 
Or wander far above the city walls. 
Bear unto him this message, that I ever 
Or speak or think of him, or weep for him. 

By unseen hands uplifted in the night 

OlF sunset, yonder solitary cloud 

Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad. 

And wafted up to heaven. It fades away, 

And melts into the air. Ah, would that I 

Could thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco, 

A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit ! 

IIenijy Wadswqrth Longfellow. 



THE PHAKTOM. 
GAIN I sit within the mansion, 
In the old familiar seat; 
And shade and sunshine chase each other 
O'er the carpet at my feet. 

But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled up- 
wards 

In the summers that are past, 
And the willow trails its branches lower 

Than when I saw them last. 

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 

From out the haunted room ; 
To till the house, that once was joyful, 

With silence and with gloom. 

And many kind, remembered faces 

Within the doorway come ; 
Voices, that wake the sweeter music 

Of one that now is dumb. 

They sing, in tones that are as glad as ever. 

The songs she loved to hear ; 
They braid the rose in summer garlands, 

Whose flowers to her were dear. 

And still, her footsteps in the passage. 

Her blushes at the door. 
Her timid words of maiden welcome, 

Come back to me once more. 

And, all forgetful of my sorrow. 

Unmindful of my pain, 
I think she has but newly left me, 

And soon will come again. 

She stays without, perchance, a moment, 

To dress her dark-brown hair; 
I hear the rustle of her garments, 

Her light step on the stair : 

O fluttering heart ! control thy tumult. 

Lest eyes profane should see 
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 

Her coming brings to me ! 

She tarries long ; but lo I a whisper 

Beyond the open door. 
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 

A shadow on the floor ! 

Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, 

The vine, whose shadow strays ; 
And my patient heart must still await her, 

Nor chide her long delays. 

But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, 

As many a time before ; 
Her foot is ever at the threshold, 

Yet never passes o'er. 

Bayakd Taylor. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



105 



SOJfJVET. 
(JWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy And happy days with thee come not again; 
8) goodly train, The sad memorials only of my pain 

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright Do with thee come, which turns my sweets 
with flowers ; to sours. 




"^ t ^f ring, thou turns't with all thy 
II ^ train." 



art the same which still thou wast be- 
fore, 
1 > licious, lusty, amiable, fair ; 
J It she, whose breath embalmed thy whole- 
some air. 

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, Is gone ; nor gold nor gems her can restore. 
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down Neglected Virtue ! seasons go and come, 
their showers. When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb. 

Thou turn'st, sweet youth; but ah! my William Drummonp, 

pleasant hours 



106 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



DEATH OF GABRIEL. 

(From " Evangeline.") 

flMHEN it came to pass that a pestilence fell 
1^ on the city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by 

flocks of wild pigeons, 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught 

in their craws but an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month 

of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads 

like a lake in the meadow. 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its nat- 
ural margin, 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of 

existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to 

charm the oppressor. 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of 

his anger; 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends 

nor attendants. 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of 

the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of 

meadows and woodlands ; 
Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its 

gateway and wicket. 
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble 

walls seem to echo 
Softly, the words of the Lord : " The poor ye 

always have with you." 
Thither, by night and day, came the sister of 

Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, 

to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead 

with splendor. 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of 

saints and apostles. 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a 

distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the 

city celestial. 
Into whose shining gates their spirits ere long 

would enter. 
Thus, on a Sabbath mom, through the streets, 

deserted and silent. 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door 

of the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air w^as the odor of 

flowers in the garden. 
And she paused on her way to gather the fair- 
est among them, 



That the dying once more might rejoice in 

their splendor and beauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corri- 
dors, cooled by the east wind. 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes 

from the belfry of Christ Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across the 

meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms that were sung by the 

Swedes at their church in Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the 

hour on her spirit ; 
Something within her said: "At length thy 

trials are ended ;" 
And, with light in her looks, she entered the 

chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, care- 
ful attendants. 
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching 

brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and 

concealing their faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of 

snow by the roadside. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline 

entered. 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she 

passed, for her presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of sun on the 

walls of a prison. 
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, 

the consoler, 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had heal- 
ed it forever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the 

night time ; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already by 

strangers. 
Suddenly, as if aiTcsted by fear or a feeling of 

wonder. 
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, 

while a shudder 
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the 

flowers dropped from her fingers, 
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and 

bloom of the morning ; 
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such 

terrible anguish 
That the dying heard it and started up from 

their pillows. 

On the pallet before her was stretched the 

form of an old man ; 
Long, and thin, and gray, were the locks that 

shaded his temples; 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



107 



But, as he lay in the morning light, his face 
for a moment 

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its 
earlier manhood ; 

So are wont to be changed the faces of those 
who are dying. 

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush 
of the fever, 

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had be- 
sprinkled its portals, 

That the angel of death might see the sign, 
and pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his 
spirit, exhausted, 

Seemed to be sinking down through iniinite 
depths in the darkness, 

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sink- 
ing and sinking ; 

Then through those realms of shade, in multi- 
plied reverberations, 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the 
hush that succeeded. 

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender 
and saint-like, 

"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away in- 
to silence. 

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the 
home of his childhood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers 
among them, 

Village, and»mountain, and woodlands; and 
walking under their shadow. 

As in the days of their youth, Evangeline rose 
in his vision. 

Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he 
lifted his eyelids. 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline 
knelt at his bedside. 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the 
accents unuttered 

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed 
what his tongue would have spoken. 

Vainly he strove to rise, and Evangeline, 
kneeling beside him. 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her 
bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it sud- 
denly sank into darkness, 

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of 
wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, 
and the sorrow. 

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatis- 
fied longing. 



All the duU, deep pain, and constant anguish 

of patience ; 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head 

to her bosom. 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, 

"Father, I thank thee!" 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THERE IS JYO DEATH. 

n^HERE is no death I The stars go down 

F To rise upon some fairer shore ; 
And bright, in heaven's jeweled crown. 
They shine for evermore. 

There is no death ! The dust we tread 
Shall change beneath the summer showers 

To golden grain or mellow fruit, 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers. 

The granite rocks disorganize, 
And feed the hungry moss they bear ; 

The forest-leaves drink daily life 
From out the viewless air. - 

There is no death! The leaves may fall, 
And flowers may fade and pass away ; 

They only wait through wintry hours 
The coming of May-day. 

There is no death ! An angel-form 
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; 

And bears our best-loved things away, 
And then we call them " dead." 

He leaves our hearts all desolate, 
He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers ; 

Transplanted Into bliss, they now 
Adorn immortal bowers. 

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones 
Made glad the scenes of sin and strife, 

Sings now an everlasting song 
Around the tree of life. 

Where'er he sees a smile too bright, 
Or heart too pure for taint and vice, 

He bears it to that world of light, 
To dwell in Paradise. 

Born unto that undying life, 

They leave us but to come again ; 

With joy we welcome them the same, 
Except their sin and pain. 

And ever near us, though unseen, 

The dear immortal spirits tread ; 
For all the boundless universe 

Is life — there is no dead ! 

Sir Edward BuL^^^ER, Lord Lytton. 



108 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 




One more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath." 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

("Drowned ! drowned 1"—-Ha»i?e/.) 



§NE more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath. 
Rashly importunate. 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 

Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements ; 

While the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 

Take her up instantly. 
Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully ; 

Think of her mournfully, 

Gently and humanly ; 



Not of the stains of her; 
All that remains of her 
Now, is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 

Rash and undutiful; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers. 
One of Eve's family. 

Wipe those poor lips of hers. 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb. 

Her fair auburn tresses ; 

Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home ? 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



109 



Who was her father? 

Who was her niother? 
Had she a sister? 

Had she a brother ? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh, it was pitiful! 
Near a whole city full. 

Home she had none ! 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 

Feelings had changed ; 
Love, by harsh evidence. 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river. 

With many a light 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement, 
She stood with amazement. 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver: 
But not the dark arch, 

Or the black flowing river; 
Mad from life's history. 
Glad to death's mystery, 

Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere, 

Out of the world. 

In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran — 
Over the brink of it — 
Picture it, think of it, 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly. 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 

Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 



Decently, kindly 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them. 

Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 

Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest. 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly. 

Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness. 

Her evil behavior: 
And leaving with meekness. 

Her sins to her Savior! 

Thomas Hood. 



OLBEK MEMORIES. 

fHEY are jewels of the mind, 
They are tendrils of the heart. 
That with our being are entwined. 
Of our very selves a part. 

They the records are of youth, 
Kept to read in after years ; 

They are manhood's well of truth. 
Filled with childhood's early tears. 

Like the low and plaintive moan 

Of the night-wind through the trees. 

Sweet to hear, though sad and lone. 
Are these olden memories. 

* * * * * 

In our days of mirth and gladness, 
We may spurn their faint control, 

But they come, in hours of sadness, 
Like sweet music to the soul ; 

And in sorrow, o'er us stealing 
With their gentleness and calm. 

They are leaves of precious healing, 
They are fruits of choicest balm. 

Ever till, when life departs. 
Death from dross the spirit frees. 

Cherish in thy heart of hearts 
All thine olden memories. 

C. Cist. 



110 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORROW. 



THE DEATH OF THE BABE 
CHRISTABEL. 

(From "The Ballad of Babe Christabel.") 

fN this dim world of clouding cares, 
We rarely know, till wildered eyes 
See white wings lessening up the skies, 
The angels with us unawares. 

And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death! 

Shall light the dark up like a star, 
• A heacon kindling from afar 
Our light of love, and fainting faith. 

Through tears it gleams perpetually. 
And glitters through the thickest glooms, 
Till the eternal morning comes 

To light us o'er the jasper sea. 

With our best branch in tenderest leaf 
We've strewn the way our Lord doth come ; 
And, ready for the harvest-home, 

His reapers bind our ripest sheaf. 

Our beautiful bird of light hath fled ; 

Awhile she sat with folded wings, 

Sang round us a few hoverings, 
Then straightway into glory sped. 

And white-winged angels nurture her ; 

With heaven's white radiance robed ar.d 
crowned. 

And all love's purple glory round, 
She summers on the hills of myrrh. 

Through childhood's morning land serene, 
She walked betwixt us twain, like love ; 
While, in a robe of light, above 

Her better angel walked unseen. 

Till life's highway broke bleak and wild ; 
Then, lest her starry garments trail 
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, 

The angel's arms caught up the child. 

Her wave of life hath backward rolled 
To the great ocean, on whose shore 
We wander up and down, to store 

Some treasures of the times of old ; 

And aye we seek and hunger on 
For precious pearls and relics rare, 
Strewn on the sands for us to wear 

At heart, for love of her that's gone. 



Oh, weep no more ! Yet there is balm 
In Gilead I Love doth ever shed 
Rich healing where it nestles, spread 

O'er desert pillows some green balm. 

Strange glory streams through life's wild 
rents. 
And through the open door of death. 
We see the heaven that beckoneth 

To the beloved going hence. 

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed ; 

The best fruits load the broken bough ; 

And in the wounds our sufferings plow. 
Immortal love sows sovereign seed. 

Gerald Massey. 




Gerald Massey, 



MOVRJ^IJYG. 

(From " Hamlet, " Act I., Scene 2.) 

*J^IS not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 

W Nor customary suits of solemn black, 
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath. 
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye. 
Nor the dejected havior of the visage. 
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief. 
That can denote me truly : These, indeed, 

seem, 
For they are actions that a man might play : 
But I have that within which passeth show ; 
These but the trappings and the suits of wo. 
William Shakspere. 



POEMS OF JOY A:N^D SORROW. 



Ill 



DEATH OF OPHELIA. 

(From "Hamlet, "Act IV., Scene 7.) 

/JNUEEN. One wo doth tread upon an- 

V^ other's heel, 

So fast they follow :— Your sister's drown'd, 

Laertes. 
Laer. Drown'd ! O, where ! 
Queen. There is a willow grows ascaunt the 

brook, 
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy 

stream ; 
There with fantastic garlands did she make 
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long 

purples, 
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, 
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call 

them : 
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet 

weeds 
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke ; 
When down her weedy trophies, and herself. 
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread 

wide; 
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up : 
Which time, she chaunted snatches of old 

tunes ; 
As one incapable of her own distress, 
Or like a creature native and indu'd 
Unto that element : but long it could not be, 
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious 

lay 
To muddy death. 
Laer. Alas then, she is drown'd ? 

Queen. Drown'd, drown'd. 

William Shakspeee. 



" OH! SXATCHEB A WAY IJT 

BEAUTTS BLOOM." 

I. 

§H ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

n. 
And oft by yon blue gushing stream 

Shall sorrow lean her drooping head. 
And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the 
dead! 



in. 
Away! we know that tears are vain, 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
Will this unteach us to complain ? 

Or make one mourner weep the less? 
And thou — who tell'st me to forget. 
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

George Gordon, Lord Byrox. 



GRAJ^DMOTHER'S SERMOM. 

fHE supper is o^er, the hearth is swept. 
And in the woodfire's glow 
The children cluster to hear a tale 
Of that time so long ago. 

When grandma's hair was golden brown. 
And the warm blood came and went 

O'er the face that could scarce have been 
sweeter then 
Than now in its rich content. 

The face is wrinkled and careworn now. 

And the golden hair is gray ; 
But the light that shone in the young girl's 
eyes 

Never has gone away. 

And her needles catch the firelight 

As in and out they go. 
With the clicking music that grandma loves. 

Shaping the stocking toe. 

And the waiting children love it, too. 
For they know the stocking song 

Brings many a tale to grandma's mind 
Which they shall have ere long. 

But it brings no story of olden time 

To grandma's heart to-night — 
Only a refrain, quaint and short. 

Is sung by the needles bright. 

" Life is a stocking," grandma says, 

" And yours is just begun ; 
But I am knitting the toe of mine, 

And my work is almost done. 

" With merry hearts we begin to knit. 

And the ribbing is almost play ; 
Some are gray-colored and some are white ; 

And some are ashen gray. 

" But most are made of many hues. 

And many a stitch set wrong ; 
And many a row to be sadly ripped 

Ere the whole is fair and strong. 



112 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORROW. 



" There are long, plain spaces, without a break^ 

That in life are hard to bear ; 
And many a weary tear is dropped 

As we fashion the heel with care. 

" But the saddest, happiest time is that 

We count, and yet would shun. 
When our heavenly Father breaks the thread 

And says our work is done." 

The children came to say good night, 
With tears in their bright young eyes^ 

While in grandma's lap, with broken thread, 
The finished stocking lies. 

Anonymous. 



FOU.YD DEAD. 

** H -^ unknown man, respectably dressed," 
^i That was all that the record said : 

Wondering pity might guess the rest : 
One thing was sure, the man was dead. 

And dead, because he'd no heart to live ; 

His courage had faltered and failed the test. 
How little the all we nov/ can give, 

A nameless sod to cover his breast I 

" Respectably dressed," the thoughtless read 

The sentence over, and idly say, 
" What was it then, since it was not need. 

Which made him thus fling his life away ?" 

"Respectably dressed ?" How little they know 
Who never have been for money pressed. 



What it costs respectable poor to go, 
Day after day, " respectably dressed!" 

The beggars on sidewalks suffer less, 
They herd all together, clan and clan ; 

Alike and equal in wretchedness, 
No room for pride between man and man. 

Nothing to lose by rags or by dirt. 

More often something is gained instead ; 

Nothing to fear but bodily hurt. 
Nothing to hope for save daily bread. 

But respectable poor have all to lose ; 

For the world to know, means loss and 
shame. 
They'd rather die, if they had to choose ; 

They cling as for life to place and name. 

Cling, and pretend, and conceal, and hide ; 

Never an hour but its terror bears ; 
Terror which slinks like guilt to one side, 

And often a guiltier conscience wears. 

" Respectably dressed" to the last ; ay, last ! 

Last dollar, last crust, last proud pulse-beat; 
Starved body, starved soul, hope dead and 
past ; 

What wonder that any death looks sweet. 

" An unknown man respectably dressed," 
That was all that the record said. 

When will the question let us rest. 
Is it fault of ours that the man was dead ? 
Helen Jackson. 

("H. H.") 






C^£^<_ C^C^tAA^ 



x^^.^^ <^ 



^t>-,-e<^ ^Sr* f^^c^ /T 






POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



113 



DEATEAT THE GOAL. 

(Suggested by the old legend that one of the Crusaders 
died of joy on the first sight of Jerusalem.) 

T|JE sailed across the glittering seas that 
Bp[ swept 

In music toward the East ; 
Far off, along the shore the nations wept — 

People, and king, and priests. 

For every land was heavy with the grief 

That one fair city bore, 
And half the world was gone to her relief, 

Half wept upon the shore. 

He heard that sound of anger and of tears, 

And in his steadfast eye 
Resolve to right the bitter wrong of years 

Shown yet more stern and high. 

And nearer every day the sunrise glowed 

And filled his heart with fire, 
Still drawing him swiftly onward, till it show- 
ed 

The land of his desire.. 

He touched the shore, and knelt with tears at 
length 

To kiss the sacred strand, 
Then rose to seek, clad in a solemn strength, 

The city of the land. 

Across the low pale hills he took his way, 

By dreary tower and tomb, 
Across the plains of Sharon, where to-day 

The rose forgets to bloom ; 

Till at the lighting of the evening fires 

Along the Western sky. 
He saw the promised home of his desires 

In royal beauty lie. 

O, city, sorrowful, yet full of grace ! 

The sinking sun adorns 
With a celestial smile thine altered face 

Beneath its crown of thorns. 

The heavy storms of rage and trouble beat 

Around thy sacred heart ; 
Thou hast a deadly wound, yet strangely 
sweet 

And beautiful thou art. 

And thou hast drawn, from all the colder lands 

Beyond the western sea. 
Hearts burning for thy wrongs, and eager hands 

To fight for God and thee. 

Lift up thy head ; thou sittest faint and fair — 
This sunset on thy brow — 



And see, with what an ecstasy of prayer 
A true knight greets thee now. 

Smile on his passionate love, his radiant face, 

His consecrated sword ; 
In one bright moment let thy matchless grace 

Give him a quick reward. 

For as the heart beats wildly at its goal, 

With every prayer fulfilled — 
Suddenly shivered is the golden bowl. 

The bounding pulse is stilled ! 

And, dead, he falls at thy beloved feet, 

Pierced by the fatal dart. 
Of joy too high, triumphant love too sweet 

For the imprisoned heart. 

Dead at the goal ! serene and satisfied. 

With never sigh nor moan, 
But with the exulting face of one who died 

Of joy and love alone. 

***** 

And we have seen on many a loved one's face, 

This rapture at the goal ; 
This joy in death, this last and sweetest grace 

Of the departing soul. 

These, too, had traveled by a weary road, 
And, when the end drew nigh, 

They saw the glorious city, God's abode, 
Smile in the eastern sky ; 

And at this vision, heavenly and fair, 

And pure, without alloy — 
This infinite answer to a lifelong prayer — 

They die at last of joy. 

Barbara Miller. 



BEMEMBRAJVCE. 

§ NIGHT of death, O Night that bringest all. 
Night full of dreams and large with prom- 
ises, 
O night, that boldest on thy shadowy knees 
Sleep for all fevers, hope for every thrall ! 
Bring thou to her for whom I wake and call, 
Bring her, when I am dead, the memories 
Of all our perished love, our vanished ease. 
So shall I live again beneath the pall. 

Then let my face, pale as a waning moon, 
Rise on thy dark and be again as dear; 
Let my dead voice find its forgotten tune 
And strike again as sweetly on her ear 
As when, upon my lips, one far-off June, 
Thy name, O Death, she could not brook to 
hear. 

A. Mary F. Robinson. 




m 




POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



115 



''SWEET BY-AJ^D-BYr 

HYMN AND RECITATION, 
Recite: 
nrjHERE are faces we fondly recall, 
"P Thatliave vanished away from this vale, 
Like the leaves of the forest that fall, 

That float from our gaze on the gale ; 
There are forms that have gladdened our sight 

That are mouldering under the sod ; 
There are loved ones that walk in the light, 

The glory and splendor of God. 
Sing: 
" In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by, 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore ; 
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by. 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore." 
Recite: 
There's the form of a beautiful child 

That comes at the set of the sun ; 
There's a face that once met me and smiled 

When my day's weary labor was done. 
I see her, in dreams, at the door, 

Again, where the green ivy clings ; 
I list to her voice while once more 

She sweetly and joyously sings : 
Sing: 

" There's a land that is fairer than day, 

And in dreams we may see it afar : 
For the Father waits over the way. 

To prepare us a dwelling-place there. 
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and by. 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore ; 
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by. 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore." 



Recite: 
Like a lily that blooms by the way. 

That brightens the path where we roam, 
She came to my presence one day, 

The sunshine and joy of my home. 
Like a lily that withers and dies, 

She drooped on a calm summer-night, 
And, closing her beautiful eyes. 

She peacefully passed from my sight. 
Sing: 
" In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by. 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore ; 
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by. 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore." 
Recite: 
I know on that beautiful shore 

She is waiting and watching to-day ; 
I know she will greet me once more, 

No matter what others may say. 
I shall lay down my burden of woe 

When I enter the valley she trod ; 
She will sing me the song that she sang long 
ago. 

While I stand in the presence of God : 
Sing: 
" To our beautiful Father above 

We will offer the tribute of praise 
For the glorious gift of his love 

And the blessings that hallow our days. 
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by, 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore ; 
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and by. 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore." 
Eugene J. Hall. 



LOSS. 
HERE is no subject of thought more melancholy, more wonderful, than the way in 
which God permits so often his best gifts to be trodden under foot of men, his rich- 
est treasures to be wasted by the moth, and the mightiest influences of his Spirit, 
given but once in the world's history, to be quenched and shortened by miseries of 
chance and guilt. I do not wonder at what men suffer, but I wonder often at what they lose. 
We may see how good rises out of pain and evil ; but the dead, naked, eyeless loss, what good 
comes of that ? The fruit struck to the earth before its ripeness ; the glowing life and goodly 
purpose dissolved away in sudden death ; the words, half spoken, choked upon the lips with 
clay forever; or, stranger than all, the whole majesty of humanity raised to its fullness, and 
every gift and power necessary for a given purpose, at a given moment, centered in one man, 
and all this perfected blessing permitted to be refused, perverted, crushed, cast aside by those 
who need it most ; the city which is not set upon a hill, the candle that giveth light to none 
that are in the house ; these are the heaviest mysteries of this strange world, and, it seems to 
me, those that mark its curse the most. 

John Ruskin. 



1 



116 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



THE GEORGIA VOLUjYTEER. 

M^AR up the lonely mountain side 
1® My wondering footsteps led ; 
The moss lay thick beneath my feet, 

The pine sighed overhead ; 
The trace of a dismantled fort 

Lay in the forest nave, 
And in the shadow near my path 

I saw a soldier's grave. 

The bramble wrestled with the weed 

Upon the lowly mound ; 
The simple headboard, rudely writ, 

Had rotted to the ground. 
I raised it with a reverent hand, 

From dust its words to clear, 
But time had blotted all but these : 

" A Georgia Volunteer." 

I heard the Shenandoah roll 

Along the vale below, 
I saw the Alleghenies rise 

Toward the realms of snow ; 
The valley campaign rose to mind, 

Its leader's name, and then 
I knew the sleeper had been one 

Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 

Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll 

Adown thy rocky glen ; 
Above thee lies the grave of one 

Of Stonewall Jackson's men ; 
Beneath the cedar and the pine. 

In solitude austere. 
Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies 

A Georgia volunteer. 

Anonymous. 



IjY watches of the XIGHT. 

EEXEATH the midnight moon of May, 
Through dusk on either hand. 
One sheet of silver spreads the bay, 

One crescent jet the land ; 
The dark ships mirrored in the stream 

Their ghostly tresses shake — 
When will the dead world cease to dream? 
When will the morning break? 

Beneath a night no longer May, 

Where only cold stars shine. 
One glimmering ocean spreads away 

This haunted life of mine ; 
And, shattered on the frozen shore, 

My harp can never wake — 



When will the dream of death be o'er? 
When will the morning break ? 

William Winter. 




William Winter. 



SPOKEJf AFTER SORROW^ 

KNOW of something sweeter than the chime 

Of fairy bells that run 
Down mellow winds. Oh fairer than the time 
You sing about in happy broken rhyme 

Of butterflies and sun. 
But, oh! as many fabled leagues away 
As the to-morrow when the east breaks gray — 
In this which lies somewhere most still and 

far 
Between the sunset and the dawn's last star. 

And known as yesterday. 



I know of something better, dearer, too. 

Than the flrst rose you hold. 
All sweet with June and dainty with the dew. 
The summer's perfect promise breathing 
through 

Its white leaves' tender fold. 
Oh I better when the late wind's gathering 

glow 
Behind the night and moaning sad and low 
Across the w orld, shall make its music dumb. 
Oh I dearer than this earliest rose to come 
Will be the last to go. 

I know of something sadder than the nest 
Of broken eggs you bring. 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



117 



With such sweet trouble stirring at your 

breast 
For love undone — the mother bird's unrest 

That yesterday could sing. 
My little child too grieved to wait my kiss ; 
Do I forget the sweetness they will miss 
Who built the home ? My heart with yours 

makes moan ; 
But, oh ! that nest, from which the birds have 
flown, 

Is sadder far than this. 

Juliet C. Marsh. 



/.¥ TIME TO COME. 

f^HE flowers are dead that made a summer's 
"# splendor. 
By wayside nooks and on the summer hill, 
And with regret these hearts of ours grow 
tender, 
As sometimes all hearts will. 

We loved the blossoms, for they helped to 
brighten 
The lives so dark with wearying toil and 
care. 
As hopes and dreams forever help to lighten 
The heavy loads we bear. 

How like the flowers, whose transient life is 
ended. 
The hopes and dreams are, that for one brief 
hour, 
Make the glad heart a garden bright and 
splendid 
About love's latticed bower. 

One little hour of almost perfect pleasure, 
A foretaste of happiness to come — 

The sudden frost — the garden yields its 
treasure 
And stands in sorrow, dumb. 

Oh, listen, heart! The .flower may lose its 
glory 

Beneath the touch of frost, but does not die. 
In spring it will repeat the old, sweet story 

Of God's dear by-and by. 

In heaven, if never here, the hopes we cher- 
ish, 
The flowers of human lives we count as lost. 
Will live again. Such beauty cannot perish, 
And heaven has no frost. 

Anonymous. 



" WHEJV SHALL WE THREE MEET 
AGAIJ^?" 

WHEN shall we three meet again ? 
When shall we three meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign. 
Ere we three shall meet again. 

Though in distant lands we sigh. 
Parched beneath a hostile sky, 
Though the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls ; 
Still in Fancy's rich domain. 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled. 
When its wasted lamps are dead. 
When, in cold oblivion's shade. 
Beauty, power, and fame are laid, 
Where immortal spirits reign. 
There shall we three meet again. 

AnONYMOUSo 



THE LOMG AGO. 

(Extract.) 

SN that deep-retiring shore 
Frequent pearls of beauty lie. 
Where the passion- waves of yore 

Fiercely beat and mounted high : 
Sorrows that are sorrows still 

Lose the bitter taste of woe ; 
Nothing's altogether ill 
In the griefs of Long-ago. 

Tombs where lonely love repines. 

Ghastly tenements of tears. 
Wear the look of happy shrines 

Through the golden mist of years : 
Death, to those who trust in good. 

Vindicates his hardest blow ; 
Oh ! we would not, if we could, 

Wake the sleep of Long-ago ! 

Though the doom of swift decay 

Shocks the soul where life is strong. 
Though for frailer hearts the day 

Lingers sad and overlong — 
Still the weight will find a leaven, 

Still the spoiler's hand is slow. 
While the future has its heaven. 

And the past its Long-ago. 

Lord Houghton, 



118 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



SEA YEJ^TURES. 

STOOD and watched ray ships go out, 
Each, one by one, unmooring free, 
What time the quiet harbor tilled, 
With flood tide from the sea. 



The first that sailed, her name was Joy ; 

She spread a smooth, white, shining sail, 
And Eastward drove with bending spars 

Before the sighing gale. 

Another sailed, her name was Hope ; 

No cargo in her hold she bore, 
Thinking to find in Western lands 

Of merchandise a storCo 

The next that sailed, her name was Love ; 

She showed a red flag at her mast, 
A flag as red as blood she showed, 

And she sped South right fast. 

The last that sailed, her name was Faith; 

Slowly she took her passage forth. 
Tacked and lay to ; at last she steered 

A straight course for the North. 

My gallant ships they sailed away. 
Over the shimmering summer sea; 

I stood at watch for many a day — 
But one came back to m^e. 

For Joy was caught by Pirate Pain ; 

Hope ran upon a hidden reef; 
And Love took fire and foundered fast. 

In whelming seas of grief. 

Faith came at last, storm-beat and torn ; 

She recompensed me all my loss ; 
For, as a cargo safe, she brought 

A Crown linked to a Cross. 

Anoxymous. 



aj^:n'ie's dream. 

(From "Enoch Arden.") 

T last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign " my Enoch, is he gone ? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of 

night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart. 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 



Suddenly put her finger on the text, 

"■ Under a palmtree." That was nothing to 

her: 
No meaning there: she closed the book and 

slept : 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 




" Started from bed and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book.'^ 

Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 

" He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is 

singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 
"Hosanna in the highest!' " Here she woke. 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 
" There is no reason why we should not wed." 
"Then for God's sake," he answer'd, " both 

our sakes. 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



119 



So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, 

Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 

But never merrily beat Annie's heart. Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, Alfred Tennyson. 




Prom sheds new roof d with Carara 
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow." 



THE FIRST SJVOWFALL. 



f^HE snow had begun in the gloaming, 
"P And busily all the night 
8 



Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 



1 



120 



POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. 



Every pine, and lir, and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl. 

And the poorest twig on the elm tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofd with Carara 
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, 

The stiff sails were softened to swan's down, 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 

The noiseless work of the sky, 
And the sudden flurries of snow birds, 

Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood ; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
Saying, " Father, who makes it snow^ ?" 



And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again I look'd at the snow fall, 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arch'd o'er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heap'd so high. 

I remember'd the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow. 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep plung'd woe. 

And again to the child I whisper'd, 

" The snow that husheth all. 
Darling, the merciful Father 

Alone can make if fall!" 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss'd her ; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister. 

Folded close under deepening snow. 

Jajvies Russell Lowell. 





#i 



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IV^R 



:s vvaCer raea 



.TiAclc 



. rve£ym\i;H««s ff^at Me Ou^ea/rs j\,rgot Hielr anei.nt aclpino . 
BelUen t^e SunaoW^ .iid ^.Vl,fs sl^ail., Ou^ sf.Wts so Use t,asb ^orsakmj", 

■/ot®e4 f.mself on/ souls mig),!: Se/e^, ©ellgKt Was ouKs.ai^a mei^oVVj ol§ea 
" f^lt ^e sflouU so Float foK e^eV. 3n J.o|.|D^-slee|D Wl.s fast enfolden . 

" - -i#> 

T)?e Ubln^t^v^ol/oist-ertusblU^v* ^ 

^ebina us Sy/ejof |=asf r«a anAxv^-lloW. 
ko/e for' our guiae^and joea^e ou/ J^IUova/, 
^hat jo^ ft see llje eo^ moon jacep'in^ 

O'^r a>'iam\ntf l?'"lls ^Wooaian<i5 sleejji.ig, 




O t^eii CoV US no joljantoTn TnorVoW; 
'/TuU-jVaugKb Witli.oIcL p^pKelie So//o>aC 
<T)ialjL tease ouV souls to \4irily loi'/ox\r 

"Uhe Jutut^e's lai^oess la tlwt Kom7 
\)SC WeaUVj of imtma^ined dovVeiP 
-l»»-«e*t^^^rp^ei fo/^iPe^eome 3un,eome Sliov/ev^. 





Behind us swept past reed and willow, ^^ 
Love for our guide, and Peace our pillow. 




pOEM^ Of ^FFECTIOJ^. 



THE MOTHER'S VIGIL. 

WAKEFUL night with stealthy tread 
O'er weary day had crept, 
As near her dying infant's bed 
A mother watched and wept. 
She saw the dews of death o'erspread 

That brow so white and fair, 
And bowing down her aching head, 
She breathed a fervent prayer : 

" O Thou," she cried, " a mother's love 

Hast known — a mother's grief — 
Bend down from starry heights above, 

And send my heart relief. 
Sweet lips that smiled are drawn in pain, 

Yet rest his life may keep, 
And-give him to my arms again : 

Oh, let my baby sleep ! " 

When sickly dawn a gleam had cast 

Of light on night's black pall, 
Through gates of heaven in mercy passed 

An answer to her call. 
On sombre wings, through gloomy skiesy 

Death's angel darkly swept — 
He softly kissed those troubled eyes. 

And lo 1 the infant slept. 

John Frederick Fargusson. 

("Hugh Conway.") 



ETUDE REALISTE. 

t BABY'S feet, like sea-shells pink, 
Might tempt, should heaven see meet, 
An angel's lips to kiss, Ave think, 
A baby's feet. 

Like rose-hued sea-flowers,toward the heat 

They stretch and spread and wink 
Their ten soft buds that part and meet. 

No flower-bells that expand and shrink, 

Gleam half so heavenly sweet 
As shine on life's untrodden brink 

A baby's feet. 

Charles Algernon Swinburne. 



BETTER MOMEJ^TS. 
JQA Y mother's voice ! how often creep 
■^fW\. Its accents on my lonely hours : 
Like healing sent on wings of sleep. 
Or due to the unconscious flowers. 

I can forget her melting prayer 
While leaping pulses madly fly, 

But in the still, unbroken air. 

Her gentle tone comes stealing by ; 

And years, and sin, and folly flee. 

And leave me at my mother's knee, 



124 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



The evening hours, the birds, the flowers, 

The starlight, moonlight, all that's meet 
For heaven in this lost world of ours. 

Remind me of her teachings sweet. 
My heart is harder, and perhaps 

My thoughtlessness hatli drank up tears ; 
And there's a mildew in the lapse 

Of a few swift and checkered years ; 
But nature's book is even yet 
With all my mother's lessons writ. 

I have been out at eventide 

Beneath a moonlight sky of spring. 
When earth was garnished like a bride, 

And night had on her silver wing ; 
When bursting leaves, and diamond grass, 

And waters leaping to the light. 
And all that make the pulses pass 

With wilder sweetness, thronged the night; 
When all was beauty ; then have I, 

With friends on whom my love is flung 
Like myrrh on winds of Araby, 

Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung ; 
And when the beautiful spirit there 

Flung over me its golden chain, 
My mother's voice came on the air 

Like the light dropping of the rain. 
And resting on some silver star 

The spirit of a bended knee, 
I've poured out low and fervent prayer 

That our eternity might be 
To rise in heaven, like stars at night, 
And tread a living path of light. 

I have been on the dewy hills 

When night was stealing from the dawn. 
And mist was on the waking rills. 

And tints were delicately drawn 

In the gray East ; when birds were waking. 

With a low murmur in the trees. 
And melody by fits was breaking 

Upon the whisper of the breeze ; 
And this when I was forth, perchance, 
As a worn reveler from the dance ; 
And when the sun sprang gloriously 

And freely up, and hill and river 
Were catching upon wave and tree 

The arrows from his subtle quiver: 
I say a voice has thrilled me then. 

Heard on the still and rushing light. 
Or, creeping from the lonely glen 

Like words from the departing night. 
Hath stricken me ; and I have pressed 

On the wet grass my fevered brow, 
And pouring forth the earliest, 



First prayer, with which I learned to bow, 
Have felt my mother's spirit rush 

Upon me as in by-past years. 
And yielding to the blessed gush 

Of my ungovernable tears. 
Have risen up, the gay, the wild. 
Subdued and humble as a child. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 




Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 

§ THERE is still within this world 
A brilliant, fadeless light. 
Which, like a star, shines through the clouds 

Of sorrow's darkest night— 
Which hovers round our pathway here. 

Wherever ive may rove; 
It is the light reflected from 
A mother's holy love. 

There is a boon— a blessed boon— 

Unto us mortals given. 
Which gives us here a foretaste of 

The happiness of heaven ; 
And when the storms of sorrows rise. 

And clouds grow dark above. 
It lingers round us to the last ; 

That boon — a mother's love. 

'Tis true that oft our footsteps roam, 
Through pleasure's flow'ry maze, 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



135 



And we forget the ties of home, 

In sin's deceitful ways ; 
Yet there's a charm to lure us back, 

Like some poor weary dove — 
That charm, so pure and beautiful. 

Is a mother's holy love. 

FixLEY Johnson. 



LITTLE CHILDBEjY. 

fHEEE is music, there is sunshine, 
Where the little children dwell, 
In the cottage, in the mansion. 

In the hut or in the cell. 
There is music in their voices, 

There is sunshine in their love. 
And a joy forever round them. 
Like a glory from above. 

There's a laughter-loving spirit. 

Glancing from the soft blue eyes. 
Flashing through the pearly tear-drops. 

Changing like the summer skies ; 
Lurking in each roguish dimple, 

Nestling in each ringlet fair, 
Over all the little child-face 

Gleaming, glancing everywhere. 

They all win our smiles and kisses 

In a thousand pleasant ways. 
By the sweet, bewitching beauty 

Of their sunny, upward gaze ; 
And we cannot help but love them. 

When their young lips meet our own, 
And the magic of their presence 

Round about our hearts is thrown. 

When they ask us curious questions, 

In a sweet confiding way. 
We can only smile in wonder, 

Hardly knowing what to say ; 
As they sit in breathless silence, 

Waiting for our kind replies, 
What a world of mystic meaning 

Dwells within the lifted eyes ! 

When the soul, all faint and weary, 

Falters in the upward way, 
And the clouds around us gather. 

Shutting out each starry ray. 
Then the merry voice of childhood 

Seems a soft and soothing strain ; 
List we to its silvery cadence. 

And our hearts grow glad again. 



Hath this world of ours no angels ? 

Do our dimly shaded eyes 
Ne'er behold the seraph's glory 

In its meek and lowly guise ? 
Can we see the little children. 

Ever beautiful and mild, 
And again repeat the story. 

Nothing but a little child ? 

Laura A. Boies. 



SUJ^DERED EBIEJVDS. 

§H ! was it I, or was it you 
That broke the subtle chain that ran 
Between us two, between us two ? 
Oh ! was it I, or was it you ? 

Not very strong the chain at best. 
Not quite complete from span to span ; 
I never thought 'twould stand the test 
Of settled commonplace, at best. 

But, oh ! how sweet, how sweet you were, 
When things were at their first and best. 
And we were friends without demur. 
Shut out from all the sound and stir. 

The little, pretty, worldly race ! 
Why couldn't we have stood the test — 
The little test of commonplace — 
Xnd kept the glory and the grace 

Of that sweet time when we first met ? 
Oh! was it I, or was it you 
That dropped the golden links and let 
The little rift, and doubt and fret 

Creep In and break that subtle chain ? 

Oh ! was it I, or was it you ? 

Still ever yet and yet again 

Old parted friends will ask with pain. 

Nora Perh> 



TRE BRIDGE OF SjYOW. 

fl^HE night is dim with snow-flakes fall- 
iP ing fast 

Through the still air. The earth is growing 
white 
Beneath their soft, pure covering: through 
the gloom 
I see afar a misty trail of light. 

It falls from your high casement, near, yet far, 



126 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



And straight my fancy to its trembling 
glow 
Forms a white pathway of these falling flakes, 
And crosses on the mystic bridge of snow. 

The snow-flakes tap against your window 
pane ; 
You heed them not. Ah, love ! you cannot 
know 
That I have crossed to you this winter night 
Upon a frail, white bridge of falling snow I 

I stand outside — the night is dark and cold; 
Within your room, are w armth and summer 
glow, 



Your smile would make a summer of the 
night. 
Though white with misty flakes of falling 
snow. 

Love, it is cold as death out here alone. 

Look up but once, I pray you, ere I go! 
Without one smile to light the lonely way 

I cannot cross again this bridge of snow. 

The light has vanished in the cold and gloom; 

Your face is hidden. Now, alas, I know 
Only my heart's deep longing formed the 
bridge 
Between us and the falling snow. 

Anoxymous. 




Oh, mother's love is glorifying, 
On the cheek like sunset lying." 



m LITTLE in the doorway sitting, 
^jisx. The mother plied her busy knitting 
And her cheek so softly smiled. 
You might be sure, although her gaze 
Was on the meshes of the lace, 
Yet her thoughts were with her child. 

But when the boy had heard her voice, 
As o'er her work she did rejoice, 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 

He became silent altogether ; 



And slyly creeping by the wall, 
He seized a single plume, let fall 
By some wild bird of longest feather, 
And all a-tremble with his freak, 
He touched her lightly on the cheek. 

Oh, what a loveliness her eyes 
Gathered in that one moment's space. 



POEMS OF AFFECTIOIS^. 



127 



While peeping round the post she spies 

Her darling's laughing face : 
Oh, mother's love is glorifying, 
On the cheek like sunset lying, 
In the eyes a moistened light, 
Softer than the moon at night. 

Thomas Burbidge. 



'HE THAT LOVES A ROSY 
CHEEK." 

ME that loves a rosy cheeky 
Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from starlike eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires. 
As old Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires. 

Hearts with equal love combined. 
Kindle never-dying fires ; 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

Thomas Carew 



WOMAJ^, THE HOME-MAKER. 

(From "The Pleasures of Hope.") 

WHO hath not paused while Beauty's pen- 
sive eye 
Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh ? 
Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten 

frame. 
The power of grace, the magic of a name ? 

There be perhaps, who barren hearts avow. 
Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow ; 
There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed. 
In self-adoring pride securely mailed ; 
But triumph not, ye peace-enamored ifew ! 
Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you ! 
For you no fancy consecrates the scene 
Where rapture uttered vows, and wept be- 
tween ; 
'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ; 
No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! 

Who that would ask a heart to dullness wed. 
The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ? 
No ; the wild bliss of nature needs alloy, 
And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy I 
And say, without our hopes, without our 
fears, 



Without the home that plighted love endears, 
Without the smile from partial beauty won, 
Oh, what were man ? a world without a sun. 

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour. 
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bovver ; 
In vain the viewless seraph lingering there 
At starry midnight charmed the silent air \ 
In vain the wild bird caroled on the steep, 
To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep; 
In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, 
Ariel notes in mingling measure played ; 
The summer wind that shook the spangled 

tree. 
The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee; 
Still slowly passed the melancholy day. 
And still the stranger wist not where to stray. 
The world was sad, the garden was a wild. 
And man, the hermit, sighed, till woman 

smiled. 

Thomas Cajipbell. 



WHAT IT IS TO LO VE. 

Yp OA^E ! I will tell thee what is to love : 
ML It is to build with human hearts a shrine, 
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous 
dove. 
Where time seems young, and life a thing 

divine. 
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine 
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss ; 

Above, the stars in shroudless beauty shine, 
Around, the streams their flowery margins 

kiss. 
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven 
is surely this. 

Yes, this is love, the steadfast and the true ; 
The immortal glory Avhich hath never set ; 
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er 
knew ; 
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet ! 
Oh, who can but recall the eve they met. 
To breath in some green walk their first young 
vow. 
While summer flowers with evening dews 
were wet. 
And winds sighed soft around the mountain's 

brow. 
And all was rapture then which is but mem- 



ory now 



Charles Swain. 



128 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 




Love thy mother, little one! 
Kiss and clasp her neck again.' 



TO A CHILD EMBRACIJ^G HIS MOTHER. 



Vp OVE thy mother, little one ! 
t^C Kiss and clasp her neck again ; 
Hereafter she may have a son 

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 

Gaze upon her living eyes, 

And mirror back her love for thee ; 
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 

To meet them when they cannot see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes ! 



Press her lips the v^^hile they glow 
With love that they have often told ; 

Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 

Press her lips the while they glow I 

Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Although it be not silver-gray ; 
Too early Death, led on by Care, 

May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh, revere her raven hair I 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



129 



Pray for her at eve and morn, 

That Heaven may long the stroke defer; 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 

When thou shalt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn ! 

Thomas Hood. 



A WOMAJTS FORGIVE JfESS. 

(From "Marmion," Canto VI.) 

SWOMAi^ ! In our hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made, 
VV^hen pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! 



Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 
Sees but the dying man. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



rosalijYD's madrigal. 

K' OVE in my bosom, like a bee, 
t^C Doth suck his sweet ; 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 

Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest. 
His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
My kisses are his daily feast. 
And yet he robs me of my rest : 

Ah, wanton, will ye ? 

And if I sleep, then percheth he 

With pretty flight. 
And makes his pillow of ray knee, 

The livelong night. 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ; 
He music plays if so I sing ; 
He lends me every lovely thing. 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : 

Whist, wanton, still ye. 

Else I with roses every day 

Will whip you hence, 
And bind you when you long to play. 

For your offence : 
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in ; 
I'll make you fast it for your sin ; 
I'll count your power not worth a pin ; 
Alas ! what hereby shall I win, 

If he gainsay me ? 



What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod ? 
He will repay me with annoy, 

Because a god. 
Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, 
O Cupid ! so thou pity me, 

Spare not, but play thee. 

Thomas Lodge. 



THE FLOWER O' DUMBLA.YE. 

J^HE sun had gane down o'er the lofty Ben 
F Lomond, 

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the 
scene, 
While lanely I stray in the calm summer 
gloamin. 
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
blane. 
How sweet is the brier, wi' its sauft fauldin' 
blossom ! 
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' 
green ; 
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this 
bosom, 
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
blane. 

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's 
bonny ; 
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower 
o' Dumblane. 
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the 
e'ening ; 
Thou'rt dear to the echoes o' Calderwood 
glen; 
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and win- 
ning. 
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' 
Dumblane. 

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jes- 
sie! 
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and 
vain ; 
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear las- 
sie, 
Till charmed by sweet Jessie, the flower o' 
Dumblane. 



130 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



Though mine were the station o' loftiest gran- 
deur, 
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, 
And reckon as naething the height o' its splen- 
dour, 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
blane. 

Robert Tahwahill. 



Rest, rest, on mother's breast '. 

Father will come to thee soon! 
Father will come to his babe in the nest; 
Silver sails all out of the west. 

Under the silver moon. 
Sleep, my little one! sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep! 

T.ORD Alfred Tennyson. 



tii:e gift. 

§ HAPPY glow, O sun-bathed tree, 
O golden-lighted river, 
A love-gift has been given me. 
And which of you is giver ? 

I came upon you something sad, 
Musing a mournful measure. 

Now all my heart in me is glad 
With a quick sense of pleasure. 

I came upon yon with a heart 
Half sick of life's vexed story. 

And now it grows of you a part. 
Steeped in your golden glory. 

A smile into my heart has crept. 
And laughs through all my being ; 

New joy into my life has leapt, 
A joy of only seeing I 

O happy glow, O sun-bathed tree, 

O golden-lighted river, 
A love gift has been given me, 

And which of you is giver ? 

Augusta Webster. 




"Rest, rest, on mother's breast : 
Father will come to thee soon !" 



LULLABY. 

(From '•'•The rrincess.") 

§WEET and low, sweet and low, 
Wind of the Avestern sea! 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea! 
Over the rolling waters go ; 
Come from the dying moon, and blow. 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while ray pretty 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest ! 
Father will come to thee soon. 



one, 



"OH! MERRY, MERRY, BE 
THE DAY!" 

§H, merry, merry, be the day, and bright 
the star of even ! 
For 'tis our duty to be gay, 
And tread in joy our whole way ; 
Grief never came from heaven, my love, 
It never came from heaven. 

Then let us not, though woes betide, complain 
of Fortune's spite ; 
As rock-encircled trees combine. 
And nearer grow and closer twine ; 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



131 



So let our hearts unite, my love, 
So let our hearts unite. 

And though the circle here be small of heart- 
ily approved ones. 
There is a home beyond the skies, 
Where vice shall sink, and virtue rise, 

Till all become the loved ones, love. 

Till all become the loved ones. 

Then let your eye be laughing still, and cloud- 
less be your brow ; 
For in that better world above, 
Oh, many myriads shall we love. 
As one another now, my love. 
As one another now. 

J. H. Perkins. 



TEE FLOWER'S XAME. 

MERE'S the garden she walked across, 
Arm in my arm such a short while since : 
Hark ! noAV I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. 
She must have reached this shrub ere she 
turned. 
As back with that murmur the wicket 
swung ; 
For she laid the poor snail my chance foot 
spurned. 
To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Down this side of the gravel walk 

She went while her robe's edge brushed the 
box; 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
Roses ranged in a valiant row, 

I will never think that she passed you by ! 
She loves you, noble roses, I know , 

But yonder see where the rock-plants lie ! 

This flower she stooped at, finger on lip, — 

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip. 

Its soft meandering Spanish name. 
What a name ! was it love or praise ? 

Speech half asleep, or song half awake ? 
1 must learn Spanish one of these days. 

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 

Roses, if I live and do well, 

I may bring her one of these days. 
To fix you fast with as fine'a spell, — 



Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. 
But do not detain me now, for she lingers 

There, like sunshine over the ground ; 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 

Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow 
not. 

Stay as you are and be love forever. 
Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not, — 

Mind ! the shut pink mouth opens never ! 
For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle. 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between. 
Till round they turn, and down they nestle : 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 

When I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

Whither I follow her, beauties flee. 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breathed it 
with me ? 
Come, bud ! show me the least of her traces. 

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall: 
Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces, — 

Roses, you are not so fair after all ! 

Robert Browning. 



SOJ{G. 

/J^OULD love impart, by nicest art, 
>©/ To speechless rocks a tongue. 
Their theme would be, beloved, of thee. 
Thy beauty all their song. 

And clerk-like, then, with sweet amen. 

Would echo from each hollow 
Reply all day ; while gentle fay, 

With merry whoop, would follow. 

Had roses sense, on no pretence. 

Would they their buds unroll ; 
For, could they speak, 'twas from thy cheek, 

Their daintiest blush they stole. 

Had lilies eyes, with glad surprise. 
They'd own themselves out-done. 

When thy pure brow and neck of snow 
Gleamed in the morning sun. 

Could shining brooks, by amorous looks. 

Be taught a voice so rare; 
Then every sound that murmured round 

Would whisper : " Thou art fair !" 

William Motherwell. 




" Tones that never thence depart, 
For she listens with her heart" 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



133 



THE MOTHER'S HOPE, 

|S there, when the winds are singing, 

In the happy summer time. 
When the raptured air is ringing 
With earth's music, heavenward springing, 

Forest chirp and village chime. 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
Unsighingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, 
As the laughter of a child ? 



Listen ! and be now delighted ! 

Morn hath touched her golden strings ; 
Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; 
Life and light are reunited 

Amid countless carolings ; 
Yet, delicious as they are. 
There's a sound that's sweeter far; 
One that makes the heart rejoice 
More than all : the human voice. 

Organ liner, deeper, clearer. 

Though it be a stranger's tone ; 
Than the winds or waters dearer; 
More enchanting to the hearer, 
For it answereth to his own. 
But, of all its witching words. 
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild, 
Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touched towers. 

Haunted strains from rivulets. 
Hum of bees among the flowers. 
Rustling leaves and silver showers. 
These, ere long, the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round : 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard 
Ere my child could speak a word. 

Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, 
Fondlier formed to catch the strain. 

Ear of one whose love is surer. 

Hers, the mother, the endurer 
Of the deepest share of pain ; 

Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 

Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 

Hers to hoard, a life-time after. 

Echoes of that infant laughter. 

'Tis a mother's large affiection 
Hears with a mysterious sense 

Breathings that evade detection. 

Whisper faint, and fine inflection 
Thrill in her with power intense. 

Childhood's honeyed words untaught 



Hiveth she in loving thought. 
Tones that never thence depart. 
For she listens with her heart. 

Laman Blanchard. 



BESCRIFTIOK OF CASTABA, 

("■ Castara" was Lucia, daughter of Lord Powis, and 
afterward the wife of the poet who thus honored her.) 

pf IKE the violet which, alone, 

t@C Prospers in some happy shade, 

My Castara lives unknown, 

To no looser eye betrayed ; 
For she's to herself untrue. 
Who delights i' th' public view. 

Such Is her beauty as no arts 
Have enriched with borrowed grace ; 
Her high birth no pride imparts, 
For she blushes in her place. 

Folly boasts a glorious blood ; 

She is noblest, being good. 

Cautious, she knew never yet 

What a wanton courtship meant; 

Nor speaks loud to boast her wit. 

In her silence eloquent ; 
Of herself survey she takes, 
But 'tween men no difference makes. 

She obeys with speedy will 

Her grave parents' wise commands ; 

And so innocent that ill 

She nor acts, nor understands : 
Women's feet run still astray. 
If once to ill they know the way. 

She sails by that rock, the court. 
Where oft Honor splits her mast ; 
And retiredness thinks the port. 
Where her fame may anchor cast : 
Virtue safely cannot sit. 
Where vice is enthroned for wit. 

She holds that day's pleasure best, 

Where sin Avaits not on delight ; 

Without mask, or ball, or feast. 

Sweetly spends a winter's night: 
O'er that darkness, whence is thrust 
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. 

She her throne makes reason climb. 
While wild passions captive lie : 
And, each article of time. 
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly : 

All her vows religious be. 

And her love she vows to me. 

William Hablngtoj^. 



134 



POEMS OF AFFECTION". 







f^^^ 






V* 



IS". _^-^^^ 

" For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." 

TRE AJSfGEL'S WHISPER. 

(The Irish have a superstitLou that when a cliild smiles in its sleep, it is talking to angels.) 

And smiled in her face as she bended her 



tBABY was sleeping, 
Its mother was weeping, 
For her husband was far on the wild raging 
sea; 
And the tempest was swelling 
Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 
And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh, come 
back to me !" 

Her beads while she numbered, 
The baby still slumbered, 



knee ; 
" O blessed be that warning. 
My child, thy sleep adorning. 
For I know that the angels are whispering 

with thee. 

"And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me I > 
And say thou wpuldst rather 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



135 



They'd watch o'er tliy father ! 
For 1 know that the angels are whispering to 
thee." 

The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning, 
And the wife wept with joy her bahe's father 
to see ; 
And closely caressing 
Her child with a blessing, 
Said, " I knew that the angels were whis- 
pering with thee." 

Samuel Lover. 



MT JfELL. 

(A Soliloquy. Founded on Beranger.) 

TOU are nobly born, I know, 
Eich, and beautiful, and free ; 
And they tell me (is it so ?) 

That you waste a thought on me. 
In your hazel eyes last night 

There was tenderness and truth ; 
But there came a softer light 

To the poet in his youth. 
I can give you high esteem , 

Gracious friend and lovely belle ; 
But I cannot love you now 

As I used to love my Nell. 

We were paupers, she and I, 

And the bread was hard to win ; 
But our garret near the sky 

Let God's purest sunlight in. 
She was meanly dressed, you see, 

In her faded cotton gown ; 
But her smile was heaven to me. 

And I never saw her frown. 
You are like a rose in June, 
She was but a lily-bell ; 
Yet I cannot love you now 

As I used to love my Nell. 

We were young and life was sweet. 

And we loved each other more 
When there scarce was food to eat, 

And the wolf was at the door. 
There was always hope, you know ; 

We could dream that skies were blue ; 
But — my darling had to go 

Just before the dream came true ! 
I am left alone with fame, 

And the great world likes me well ; 
But I cannot love again 

As I used to love my Nell. 



Then forgive me if the light 

Of your presence leaves me cold ; 
You are young, and gay, and bright, 

I am growing grave and old ; 
And the brow she used to kiss 

Is more wrinkled than of yore. 
But the treasure that I miss 

Is not lost, but gone before. 
Some have many loves, but I 

Learned to love but once, and well ; 
And I cannot woo you now 

As I used to woo my Nell. 

Sarah Doudney. 



THE MIJVSTBEL'S CALL. 

(From "The Tale of the Dark Ladie.") 

§ LEAVE the lily on the stem, 
O leave the rose upon the spray, 
O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids, 
And listen to my lay. 

A cypress and a myrtle-bough 

This morn around my harp you twined, 
Because it fashioned mournfully 

Its murmurs in the wind. 

And now a Tale of liOve and Woe, 

A woeful Tale of Love I sing; 
Hark, gentle maidens ! hark ! it sighs 

And trembles on the string. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



LO VE'S B UBIAL PLACE. 

A MADRIGAL. 

(Found on the back of one of the manuscripts of 
Coleridge.) 

Vp ADY. If Love be dead, and you aver it, 
!€)(• Tell me. Bard, Where Love lies bur- 
ied. 

Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born ; 

Ah, faithless nymph! think it no scorn, 
If in my fancy I presume 
To call thy bosom poor Love's tomb ; 
And on that tomb to read the line : 
" Here lies a Love that once seemed 

mine. 
But took a chill, as I divine, 
And died at length of a decline." 

Samuel Taylor Coleripge, 




/UU^ /huih/Pt^tn^ 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



137 



ALL JTJXE I BOVKB TEE ROSE 

I jY sheaves:' 

LL June I bound the rose in sheaves , 
Now, rose by rose, I stripped the leaves, 
And strew them where Pauline may pass. 
She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
The chance was they might take her eye. 
How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
To-day J venture all 1 know. 
She will not hear my music ? So ! 
Break the string ; fold Music's wing! 
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ? 

RoBEKT Browning. 



''THIS IS A SPRAY THE BIRD 

CLUJfG to:' 

f^HIS is a spray the bird clung to, 

"P Making it blossom with pleasure. 

Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 

Fit for her nest and her treasure. 

Oh, what a hope beyond measure 

Was the poor spray's which the flying feet 

clung to. 
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! 

This is a heart the queen leant on, 

Thrilled in a minute erratic. 
Ere the true bosom she bent on. 
Meet for love's regal dalmatic. 
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went 

on. 
Love, to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on ! 
Robert Bro\a^ing. 



OJf HER BIRTHDAY. 

"^EE years steal by like birds through cloud- 
^ less skies, 

Soft singing as they go ; 
She views their flight with sunshine in her 
eyes, 

She hears their music low. 
And on her forehead, beautiful and wise. 

Shines love's most holy glow. 

There is no pain for her in Time's soft flight, 

Her spirit is so fair ; 
Her days shine as they pass her, in the light 

Her gentle doings wear ; 



On her fair brow I never saw the night 
But Hope's glad star shone there. 

It is a blessing just to see her face 

Pass like an angel's by — 
Her soft, brown hair, sweet eyes, and lips that 
grace 

The smiles that round them lie ; 
The brightest sunbeam in its heavenly place 

Might joy to catch her eye. 

Dear life, that groweth sweeter growing old ! 

I bring this verse to thee, 
A tiny flower, but in its heart the gold 

Of lasting love from me ; 
While in my soul that deeper love I hold 

Too great for man to see. 

Anonymous. 



THE IJ^FLTJEMCE OF WOMAJV. 

^MHE bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath 
W Feels in its barrenness some touch of 
Spring ; 
And in the April dew, or beam of May, 
Its moss and lichen freshen and revive ; 
And thus the heart, most seared to human 

pleasure. 
Melts at the tear, smiles in the joy of woman. 
Beaumont and Fletcher. 



SOJYJVET TO A FRIEKD. 

WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent 
thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 
waste ; 
Then can I drown an eye unus'd to flow. 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless 
night. 
And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled 
woe. 
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd 
sight : 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I now pay as if not paid before. 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end. 

William SHAKsrERE, 



138 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 




•Slie laughs : *Why look you so slily at me ? 
If you have heart enough, come kiss me.' ' 



BE A UTY ROHTRA UT. 



Mj^HAT is the name of King Ringang's 
WJ daughter? 

Rohtraut, Beauty Eohtraut; 
And what does she do the livelong day, 
Since she dare not knit and spin alway ? 
O hunting and fishing is ever her play, 
And, heigh! that her huntsman I might be ! 
I'd hunt and fish right merrily. 

Be silent, heart. 

And it chanced that, after this sometime — 

Eohtraut, Beauty Rohtraut — 
The boy in the castle has gained access, 



And a horse he has got and a huntsman's dress, 
To hunt and to fish with the merry Princess ; 
And, oh ! that a king's son I might be ! 
Beauty Rohtraut I love so tenderly. 
Hush! hush! my heart. 

Under a grey old oak they sat — 
Beauty, Beauty, Rohtraut. 
She laughs : " Why look you so slily at me ? 
If you have heart enough, come kiss me." 
Cried the breathless boy, " Kiss thee ? " 
But he thinks, " Kind fortune has favored my 
youth ; " 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



139 



And thrice he has kissed Beauty Rohtraut' 
mouth. 
Down! down! mad heart. 

Then slowly and silently they rode home, 

Rohtraut, Beauty Rohtraut — 
The boy was lost in his delight : 
" And, wert thou empress this very night, 
I would not heed or feel the blight ; 
Ye thousand leaves of the wild wood wist 
How Beauty Rohtraut's mouth I kissed. 
Hush! hush! wild heart." 

George Meredith. 



sojYMet ok love. 

T^ ET me not to the marriage of true minds 
llf Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 
Or bends with the remover to remove : 

no ! it is an ever fixed mark, 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 
It is the star to every wandering bark. 
Whose worth's unknown, although his 
height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 
cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and 
weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me prov 'd, 

1 never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. 

William Shakspere. 



LOVE'S SWEET MEMORIES. 

y^ANST thou forget, beloved, our first 
^^ awaking 
From oat the shadowy calms of doubts and 
dreams. 
To know Love's perfect sunlight round us 
breaking. 
Bathing our beings in its gorgeous gleams ? 
Canst thou forget ? 

A sky of rose and gold was o'er us glowing, 

Around us was the morning breath of May; 
Then met our soul-tides, thence together flow- 
ing, 
Then kissed our thought-waves, mingling on 
their way ; 

Canst thou forget ? 
•x- * -sf * ■::• 

Canst thou forget the child-like heart-outpour- 
ing 



Of her whose fond faith knew no faltering 
fears ? 
The lashes dropped to veil her eyes' adoring, 

Her speaking silence, and her blissful tears? 
Canst thou forget ? 

Canst thou forget, though all Love's spells be 
broken. 
The wild fareweU, which rent our souls 
apart ? 
And that last gift, affection's holiest token, 
The severed tress, which lay upon thy heart? 
Canst thou forget ? 

S. J. Clarke. 

("Grace Greenwood.") 



A HOLIDAY IDYL. 



baU 



fROM the crowd and the crush of the 
room, 
I wandered with Winifred, where. 
In the dimness and dusk of a small room 

That oped at the foot of the stair 
(Apart from the quibble and quarrel 

Of the throng with its smile and its frown), 
The lords of .the lyre and the laurel 
Looked placidly down. 

We talked in a lull 'twixt the dances. 

That frolicsome holiday time. 
Of parties, and plays, and romances. 

Till we drifted at last into "rhyme." 
And I heard her — supremest of pleasure — 

With clear modulation repeat 
From Aldrich my favorite measures. 

Surprisingly sweet. 

A murmurous ripple of laughter 

Broke in when I called them divine ; 
She paused for a moment and after, 

She quoted a ditty of mine — 
A love song, which though I concealed it. 

Set all of my pulses astir. 
And which, though I ne'er had revealed it, 

Was written to her. 

What was it ? — the hour with its glamour, 

The perfume, the lights burning low. 
The violins' rhythmical clamor. 

The mellow and musical flow 
Of her voice with its depth of expression, 

That led me to boldly confess — 
Ah! that and what followed confession, 

I leave you to guess ! 

Anonymous, 



140 POEMS OF AFFECT lOK. 

TO * * * *. 
JigJ USIC, when soft voices die, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 

)/@i Vibrates in the memory; Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; 

Odors when sweet violets sicken, And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 

Live within the sense they quicken. Love itself shall slumber on. 

Pekcy Bysshe Shelley. 

FROM THE BEBTCATIOJ^ TO " THE REVOLT OF ISLAMr 

/■/^^ X^«^- c/^?^ /^^^/^-^^ 





""^^^^if^^ A^^^^iy/7^ J^ n^^o 








BOYHOOD. 
p[H, then how sweetly closed those crowd- Those weary, happy days did leave ? 
ed days ! When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, 

The minutes parting one by one like rays And with her blessing took her nightly 

That fade upon a summer's eve ; kiss ; 

But oh, what charm or magic numbers Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this; 

Can give me back the gentle slumbers E^en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

Wasiujsgton Ajjlston, 



POEMS OF ArrECTION. 
MT LETTER. 



141 



READ it, my letter, my letter, as I sate in Away from the sunny seaboard, away from 
my rocky nest ; the purple down ; 

The waves at my feet were creaming, the I saw the smoky, sullen streets, I saw the busy 

wind blew soft from the west ; town. 

The sunshine on the tangie-beds was blazing I saw the desk with its dusty load, I saw the 

fiercely down, " dreary room, 

And as they wavered to and fro, they glowed And I saw the dark blue eyes I knew, out- 

to golden brown. shining in the gloom. 

Iheard the cry of the curlews blend with the j ^^^^ . ^ ^ ^^^ j ^^^ .jl^, 

breakers' roar, mine it 

I took from my breast my letter, and read it The graceful 'pbrase, the graphic touch, the 



yet once more 










^^ ' " I read it, my letter, my letter, as I loitered 
f^^ by the sea, 

-~.^%. And as I read, my fancy was flying fast and 
free." 







The tender lingering o'er the words, that even 

as he wrote. 
Seemed as Love hovered over them, their 
truth and depth to note ; 
I read it, my letter, my letter, as I loitered by The sweet old words whose iterance, to those 

the sea, that yearn to hear 

And as I read, my fancy was flying fast and But deepens ever down and down, and deep- 
free, ening grows more dear. 



142 POEMS OF AFFECTIOIT. 

I read it, my letter, my letter; then softly in To what I have loved so long and well, the 

fragments small flashing, dancing wave, 

I tore the precious pages, and stopped to kiss To the mighty arms of the great North sea, 

them all ; the thing I prized I gave ; 

They were safe and sure, the golden words. It should die, my letter, my letter, no common 

rewritten in my heart, mortal death, 

It were surely best, in a world of change, It should be rocked upon the ocean's breast, 

with their earthly shrine to part ; lulled by the ocean's breath. 

So I tore it, my letter, my letter, with a smile. Has a monarch kinglier requiem, a chief a 

and with a sigh, nobler shrine. 

And tossed them to the sunny sea, beneath Than that I gave my letter from that rocky 

the sunny sky. nest of mine ? Anonymous. 



THE L.mB OF LOVE. 

(From ''A Tour Round My Garden.") 

V|— 'HERE are times w^hen the flowers languish with heat; there are times when one only 
|S\ hears among the parched herbs the monotonous cry of the grasshopper, when one sees 
Vjy nothing stirring abroad but the lizards. The nights are cool, sweet, and fragrant ; the 

*f flowering trees are filled with nightingales, exhaling perfumes and celestial melody; 
and the grass is brilliant with the glow-worms gliding about with their violet flames. 

You will in this manner describe to me some far off country; I will thus delineate what my 
garden affords. The seasons, as they pass away, are climates which travel around the globe, 
and come to seek me. Your long voyages are nothing but fatiguing visits, which you go to 
pay to the seasons which would themselves have come to you. 

But there is still another land, a delightful country, which would in vain be sought for on 
the waves of the sea, or across the lofty mountains. In that country the flowers not only ex- 
hale sweet perfumes, but intoxicating thoughts of love. 

There every tree, every plant breathes, in a language more noble than poetry,, and more 
sweet than music, things of which no human tongue can give an idea. The sand of the roads 
is gold and precious stones, the air is filled with songs, compared to which those of the night- 
ingales and thrushes which I now listen to, are no better than the croak of frogs in their reedy 
marshes. Man in that land is good, great, noble, and generous. 

There all things are the reverse of those which we see every day ; all the treasures of the 
earth, all dignities crowded together, would be but objects of ridicule if offered there in ex- 
change for a faded flower or an old glove, left in a honej^suckle arbor. But why do I talk about 
honeysuckles ? Why, I am forced to give the names of flowers you know to those charming re- 
gions. In this country no one believes in the existence of perfidy, unconstancy, old age, death, 
or forgetfulness, which is the death of the heart. Man there requires neither sleep nor food ; an 
old wooden bench is there a thousand times more soft than eider-down elsewhere; slumbers 
are there more calm and delicious, constantly attended by blissful dreams. The sour sloe of 
the hedges, the insipid fruit of the bramble, there acquire a flavor so delicious that it would 
be absurd to compare them to the pine-apple of other regions. Life is there more mildly hap- 
py than dreams can aspire to be in other countries. Go, then, and seek these poetic isles! 

Alas 1 In reality it was but a poor little garden, in a mean suburb, when I was eighteen, and 
in love, and when she would steal thither for an instant at sunset! 

Jean Baptiste Alphonse Kahb. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



143 




" No charm so dear 
As home and friends around us 



HOME HAPPIJVESS. 



§H, there's a power 
To make each hour 
As sweet as Heaven designed it ; 
Nor need we roam 
To bring it home, 
Though few there be that find it. 

We seek too high 
For things close by, 

And lose what nature found us : 
For life hath here 
No charm so dear 

As home and friends around us ! 

We oft destroy 

The present joy 
For future hopes, and praise them, 

Whilst flowers as sweet 

Bloom at our feet. 
If we'd but stoop to raise them. 

For things afar 
Still sweetest are, 



When youth's bright spell hath bound us ; 
• But soon we're taught 
That earth hath naught 
Like home and friends around us ! 

Charles Swain. 



LOVE IS A SICKJVESS. 

Tj OVE is a sickness full of woes. 
Mi AH remedies refusing ; 
A plant that most with cutting grows. 
Most barren with best using. 

Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it, sighing, cries. 

Heigh-ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind 

Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so? 



144 



POEMS OF AFFECTIO]N^. 



More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it, sighing, cries. 
Heigh-ho ! 

Samuel Daniel. 



BALLAD -I'LL KEVEU LOVE 
TREE MORE. 

Y dear and only love, I pray 
That little world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

Than purest monarchy; 
For if confusion have a part. 

Which virtuous souls abhor. 
And hold a synod in thine heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much. 

Or his deserts are small. 
That dares not put it to the touch 

To gain or lose it all ! 

But I will reign and govern still, 

And always give the law, 
And have each subject at my will, 

And all to stand in awe. 
But 'gainst my batteries if I find 

Thou kick, or vex me sore, 
As thou would set me up a blind, 

I'll never love thee more. 

And in the empire of thine heart, 

Where I should solely be. 
If others do pretend a part, 

Or dare to vie with me ; 
Or committees if thou erect. 

And go on such a score, 
I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect. 

And never love thee more. 

But if thou wilt prove faithful, then. 

And constant of thy word, 
I'll make thee glorious by my pen. 

And famous by my sword ; 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

Was never heard before ; 
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays. 

And love thee more and more. 

James Gi^vham, Marquis op Montrose. 



MY SAIJ^T. 

SIT and watch her where the shadow^s fall 
From somber arch and carven column 
white ; 
One line of purple streams aslant the wall, 
And then all dusk, save where the altar's 
light 
Rises beyond a star from out the gloom. 
Above a cross Avith lily flowers in bloom. 



So fair and tender is her downcast face. 
So still her clasped hands and sad sweet eyes 

That in the silence of the holy place. 
Great depths of longing from my heart arise 

That I, all tempest tossed by grief and sin. 

Could kneel, like her, at peace without, with- 
in I 

Sudden, far down the shadow-darkened aisle 
A strain of minor melody soft sobs. 

So sorrowful that all my soul the while 
Responds unto its passion pleading throbs ; 

And lo, a tear upon her clasped hands. 

My saint a woman is, and understands ! 

Anonymous. 

LOCHABER J^O MORE. 

"M^AREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my 

r® Jean, 

Where heartsome with thee I've mony day 

been ; 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, 
We'U maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my 

dear. 
And no for the dangers attending on weir ; 
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody 

shore. 
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 

They'll ne'er mak a tempest like that in my 
mind ; 

Though loudest o' thunder on louder waves 
roar. 

That's nae thing like leaving my love on the 
shore. 

To leave thee behind me my heart is sair 
pained ; 

By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain- 
ed ; 

And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 

And I must deserve it before I can crave. 






POEMS OF AFFECTIOK. 



145 



Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my ex- 
cuse ; 
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. 
And without thy favor I'd better not be. 
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, 



And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running 

o'er, 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no 

more. 

Allan Ramsay. 




" What is the greatest bliss 

That the tongue o' man can name?" 



WHEjy THE KYE COME HAME. 



/^OME all ye jolly shepherds 
VS' That whistle through the glen, 
I'll tell ye of a secret 

That courtiers dinna ken ; 
What is the greatest bliss 

That the tongue o' man can name ? 



'Tis to woo a bonny lassie 
When the kye come hame. 



When the kye come hame, 
When the kye come hame, 
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk, 
When the kye come hame. 



146 



POEMS OF AFFECTIOK. 



'Tis not beneath the coronet, 

Nor canopy of state ; 
'Tis not on couch of velvet, 

Nor arbor of the great — 
'Tis beneath the spreading birk, 

In the glen without the name, 
Wi' a bonnj^, bonny lassie, 

AVhen the kye come hame. 

There the blackbird bigs his nest 

For the mate he lo'es to see. 
And on the topmost bough, 

Oh, a happy bird Is he ! 
Then he pours his melting ditty, 

And love is a' the theme, 
And he'll woo his bonny lassie 

When the kye come hame. 

When the blewart bears a pearl. 

And the daisy turns a pea, 
And the bonny lucken go wan 

Has fauldit up her ee. 
Then the laverock frae the blue lift, 

Draps down and thinks nae shame. 
To woo his bonny lassie 

When the kye come hame. 

See yonder pawky shepherd 

That lingers on the hill — 
His yowes arc in the fauld. 

And his lambs are lying still ; 
Yet he downa gang to bed, 

For his heart is in a flame 
To meet his bonny lassie 

When the kye come hame. 

When the little w^ee bit heart 

Rises high in the breast. 
And the little wee bit starn 

Rises red in the east, 
Oh, there's a joy sae dear. 

That the heart can hardly frame, 
'Wi a bonny, bonny lassie. 

When the kye come hame. 

Then since all nature joins 

In this love without alloy. 
Oh, wha wad prove a traitor 

To nature's dearest joy ? 
Or wha wad choose a crown, 

Wi' its perils and its fame, 
And miss his bonny lassie 

When the kye come hame ? 
When the kye come hame, 
When the kye come hame. 



'Tween the gloamin and the mirk, 
When the kye come hame. 

James Hogg» 



HER LETTER. 

'M sitting alone by the fire. 

Dressed just as I came from the dance. 
In a robe even you would admire ; 

It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason. 

My hair is done up in a cue ; 
In short, sir, " the belle of the season" 

Is wasting an hour upon you. 

A dozen engagements I've broken ; 

I left in the midst of a set ; 
Likewise a proposal, half spoken — 

That waits on the stairs for me yet ; 
They say he'll be rich — when he grows up, 

And then he adores me indeed ; 
And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 

Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

" And how do I like my position ?" 

" And what do I think of New York ?" 
" And now, in my higher ambition, 

With whom do I ride, flirt, or talk?" 
" And isn't it nice to have riches. 

And diamonds and silks, and all that ?" 
" And aren't it a change to the ditches 

And tunnels of Poverty Flat ?" 

Well, yes ; if you saw us out driving 

Each day in the Park, four-in-hand ; 
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 

To look supernaturally grand ; 
If you saw papa's picture, as taken 

By Brady, and tinted at that. 
You'd never suspect he sold bacon 

And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, just this moment, when sitting 

In the glare of the great chandelier. 
In the bustle and glitter befitting 

The " finest soiree of the year," 
In the mists of a gaze de chambery. 

And the hum of the smallest of talk, 
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," 

And the dance that we had on " The Fork." 

Of Harrrison's barn, with its muster 

Of the flags festooned over the wall ; 
Of candles that shed their soft lustre 




"In short, sir, 'the belle of the season, 
Is wasting an hour upon you." 



148 



POEMS OF AFFECTIOlSr. 



And tallow on head-dress and shawl; 
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, 

Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; 
And how I once went down the middle 

AV^ith the man that shot Sandy MoGee. 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 

On the hill when the time came to go ; 
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 

From under their bed-clothes of snow ; 
Of that ride — that to me was the rarest ; 

Of the something you said at the gate ; 
Ah! Joe ! then I wasn't the heiress 

To " the best paying lead in the state." 

Well, well, it's all past ; yet it's funny 
To think, as I stood in the glare, 

Of fashion, and beauty, and money. 
That I should be thinking, right there, 

Of some one ^vho breasted high water. 
And swam the North Fork, and all that, 



Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, 
The Lily of Poverty Flat. 

But, Goodness I what nonsense I'm writing! 

Mamma says my taste is still low ; 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I'm spooning on Joseph — heigh-ho! 
And I'm to be " finished" by travel, 

Whatever's the meaning of that ; 
Oh, why did papa strike pay-gravel, 

In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 

Good-night! Here's the end of my paper; 

Good-night — if the longitude please ; 
For maybe, while wasting my paper. 

Your sun's climbing over the trees. 
But know, if you haven't got riches. 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
That my heart's somewhere there in 
ditches. 

And you've struck it — on Poverty Flat! 
(Fraxcis) Bret Harte 



the 



FROM ''THE DAY IS DOJVE/ 



'WwvA 






A^ 



JL aS A 






»QAAAjL/ 




IS it the ghost of dead and ruined Love 
$ Which haunts the Home of Life, and comeS 
by night 
With weary sighs, and in its eyes the light 
Of joys long set? I hear its footsteps move 
Through darkened rooms where only ghosts 
now rove — 
The rooms Love's shining eyes of old made 

bright. 
It whispers low, it trembles into sight ; 
A bodiless presence hearts alone may prove. 



LOVE'S GHOST. 

I say, " Sad visitant of this dark house, 



Why wanderest thou through these deserted 

rooms, 

A dreadful, glimmering light about thy brows ? 

Thy silent home should be among the 

tombs." 

And the ghost answers, while I thrill with 

fear, 
" In all the world I have no home but here." 
Philip Bourke Marston. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



149 



\m 



lUKE. 



COJVC BALED LOVE. 

(From Twelfth Night. Act II., Scene 4.) 

And what's her history ? Smiling at grief. Was not this love, in- 



LI/ Vio. A blank, my lord; she never told deed? 

her love, We men may say more, swear more : but, in- 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the" bud, deed 

Feed on her damask cheek; she pin'd in Our shows are more than will; for still we 

thought ; prove 

And with a green and yellow melancholy, Much in our vows, but little in our love. 
She sat,like patience on a monument, WnxiAM Shakspere. 




" Mark how o'er ocean's breast 
Kolls the hoar billow's crest." 



GO SIT BY- TEE SUMMER SEA. 



to sit by the summer sea, 
Thou whom scorn wasteth, 
And let thy musing be 

Where the flood hasteth ; 
Mark how o'er ocean's breast 
Rolls the hoar billow's crest I 
Such is his heart's imrest 
Who of love tasteth. 

Griev'st thou that hearts should change ? 

Lo, where life reigneth, 
Or the free sight doth range, 

What long remaineth ? 
Spring with her flowers doth die, 



Fast fades the gilded sky, 
And the full moon on high 
Ceaselessly waneth. 

Smile then ye sage and wise. 

And if love sever 
Bonds which thy soul doth prize, 

Such does it ever. 
Deep as the rolling seas. 
Soft as the twilight breeze. 
But of more than these 

Boast could it never. 

James Shirley, 



150 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



SOJ^G. 

(From "The Duenna.") 

<^OFT pity never leaves the gentle breast 
iS) Where love has been received a welcome 

guest ; 
As wandering saints poor huts have sacred 

made, 
He hallows every heart he once has swayed ; 
And when his presence we no longer share, 
IStill leaves compassion as a relic there. 

EiciL\KD Brixsley Sheridan, 




Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 



''IS SHE BIDIjYG?" 

IS she biding where eternal summer smiles 

i upon the seas, 

And the snowy orange blossoms ever flake the 

shelly strand ? 
Is she biding, is she biding where the tender 

tropic breeze 
Tells the story of his wooings to the billoAvs 

on the sand ? 

Somewhere, somewhere, I know not where. 

Upon the land or sea — 
Somewhere, somewhere, all pure and fair, 

My love abides for me. 

Is she biding 'mid the clover blossoms upon 
the purple hiUs, 



Where the mellow bees are humming and the 

apple blossoms float ? 
Is she biding, is she biding where the brooklet 

leaps and trills. 
And does she bind the daisies in a posy for 

her throat ? 

Somewhere, somewhere, I know not where, 

My love and I shall meet. 
For there's a Fate through foul and fair 

That guides my wayward feet. 

Is she biding where the starlight gleams upon 

the frozen gloom, 
And faintly sing the carols that awake the 

drowsy morn ? 
Is she biding, is she biding where the roses 

never bloom, 
And the poppies never wave their crimson 

banner through the corn ? 

She bides somewhere, I know not where, 

But surely this I know : 
'Twill always seem like summer there, 

Howe'er the wind may blow ! 

Samuel Mlnturn Peck. 



SHE WALKS IJy BEAUTY. 



^HE walks in beauty, like the night 
IJ) Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

n. 

One shade the more, one ray the less. 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express. 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

in. 
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent! 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



151 



MT OWJV SHALL COME, 

§ERENE I fold my hands and wait, 
Nor care for wind or tide or sea, 
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo ! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays. 
For what avails this eager pace ? 

I stand amid the eternal ways 
And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day, 
The friends I seek are seeking me ; 

No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Or change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone ? 

I wait with joy the coming years. 
My heart shall reap where it has sown, 

And garner up the fruit of tears. 

The planets know their own and draw. 

The tide turns to the sea ; 
I stand serene midst nature's law 

And know my own shall come to me. 

The stars come nightly to the sky. 

The dews fall on the lea ; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high 

Can keep my own away from me. 

Anonymous. 



THROUGH THE MEADOW. 

f^ETE summer sun was soft and bland, 
J^ As they went through the meadow land. 

The little wind that hardly shook 
The silver of the sleeping brook 
Blew the gold hair about her eyes — 
A mystery of mysteries ! 
So he must often pause, and stoop. 
And all the wanton ringlets loop 
Behind her dainty ear — emprise 
Of slow event and many sighs. 

Across the stream was scarce a step — 
And yet she feared to try the leap ; 
And he, to still her sweet alarm, 
Must lift her over on his arm. 

She could not keep the narrow way, 
For still the little feet would stray, 
And ever must he bend t' undo 



The tangled grasses from her shoe — 
From dainty rosebud lips in pout. 
Must kiss the perfect flower out I 

Ah! little coquette ! Fair deceit ! 
Some things are bitter that were sweet. 

William D. Ho wells. 




William D. Howells. 



CUPID DEFIED. 

(From "Midsummer Night's Dream," Act I., Scene 2.) 

J^ Y gentle Puck, come hither; thou remem- 
)/®l b.er'st 

Since once I sat upon a promontory. 
And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back. 
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, 
That the rude sea grew civil at her song ; 
And certain stars shot madly from their 

spheres, 
To hear the sea-maid's music. 
Puck. I remember. 

Ohe. That very time I saw (but thou could'st 

not ) 
Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
Cupid all arm'd ; a certain aim he took 
At a fair vestal, throned by the west ; 
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow 
As it should pierce a hundred thousand 

hearts : 
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry 

moon ; 
And the imperial vot'ress passed on, 
In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell : 




" The heaveiis were bright, j\nd all the earth was fair 
Love's golden radiance fell upon our way," 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



153 



It fell upon a little western flower, — 
Before, milk-white ; now purple with love's 

wound, — 
And maidens call it, love-in-idleness. 

William Shakspere. 



YESTERDAY. 

TESTEEDAY, darling— only yesterday, 
The heavens were bright, and all the 
earth was fair; 
Love's golden radiance fell upon our way — 

Love's dreamy music filled the scented air : 
A thousand wild flowers trembled round our 
feet, 
We saw the lilac boughs above us sway ; 
And heard the woodlark singing high and 
sweet, 
Yesterday, darling — only yesterday. 

Yesterday, darling— only yesterday, 

With lips apart and hair of russet brown. 
You came, dear heart, across the flower-deck- 
ed way, 
Sweeping the grasses with your trailing 
gown ; 
Upon your cheek there was a wild-rose glow, 

And in your eyes there was a sunset ray ; 
You came with arms outstretched — you loved 
me so. 
Yesterday, darling — only yesterday. 

Yesterday, darling — only yesterday, 

A soft breeze stealing from the sunny south 
Blew from your brow the tangled fringe away, 

And wooed the kisses from your crimson 
mouth ; 
The boughs caressed you as you came along, 

The red sun kissed you with its parting ray, 
Tbe woodlark praised you in his happy song. 

Yesterday, darling — only yesterday. 

Yesterday, darling — only yesterday; 

Ah, me ! ah, me ! but yesterday is^-dead : 
The sun stiU shines across the flower-decked 
way. 
And still the woodlark warbles overhead ; 
But in the shadows of a great despair, 

I weep, dear heart, upon the weary way. 
For love's bright dream, that made the earth 
so fair 
Yesterday, darling — only yesterday. 

M. M. Forrester. 



WHYJfOT? 

WHEN woman loves, and will not show it, 
What can her lover do ? 
I asked a scholar, and a poet, 
But neither wise fool seemed to know it ; 
So, lady, I ask you. 

Were you in love (let me suppose it). 
What should your lover do? 

You know you love him and he knows it ; 

Oh ! why not, then, to him disclose it, 
As he his love to you ? 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 




Richard Henry Stoddard. 



THE IJYTERPRETER. 

©H, well these places knew and lov'd us 
twain ! 
The Genii softly laughed to see us pass, 
To kiss our blessed hands up climbed the 

grass. 
And on our pathway danced a flowery train ; 
To counsel us each aged tree was fain, 
And all its leafy accents we could class ; 
^Y symbol circles on its polished glass, 
Bj chiming shallows, still the brook spake 

plain. 
Now all is changed : I look and list in vain ; 
As one who sits and hears a solemn mass, 
In otber language, in an alien fane, 



154 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



So I without thee in these haunts, alas ! 
Am nature's stranger — so must I remain 
Till, sweet interpreter! thou come again. 

Edith M. Thomas. 



Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea, 
And round about the thorny tree, 
Or pu' the wild-flowers a' for thee, 
My only jo and dearie 0. 



TO THE EYEXIJ^G STAB. 

(Extract.) 

T^TOW sweet thy modest light to view, 
Bi[ Fair star, to love and lovers dear ! 
While trembling on the falling dew. 
Like beauty shining through a tear. 

Thine are the soft, enchanting hours 
When twilight lingers o'er the plain, 

And whispers to the closing flowers 
That soon the sun Avill rise again. 

Thine is the breeze that murmuring bland 
As music, wafts the lover's sigh, 

And bids the yielding heart expand 
In love's delicious ecstasy. 

Fair star, though I be doomed to prove 
That rapture's tears are mixed with pain, 

Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love. 
But sweeter to be loved again! 

John Leyden. 



MY O.YLT JO AMD DEARIE O. 

fW^HY cheek is o' the rose's hue, 
■p [My only jo and dearie O ; 
Thy neck is like the siller-dew 

Upon the banks sae briery O; 
Thy teeth are o' the ivory, 
Oh, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee ! 
]N'ae joy, nae pleasure blinks on me, 

My only jo and dearie O. 



I hae a wish I canna time, 

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me O ; 
I wish thou wert forever mine, 

And never mair to leave me O : 
Then I wad daut thee night and day , 
Nor ither wardly care would hae. 
Till life's warm stream forgot to play, 

My only jo and dearie O. 

Richard Gall. 



SOJfJYET 

(It will be noticed that this sonnet has fifteen linos.) 

J^HE forward violet thus did T chide : — 
W Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy 
sweet that smells. 
If not from my love's breath? The purple 
pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion 
dwells, 
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. 
The lily I condemned for thy hand, 

And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : 
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 

One blushing shame, another white despair; 
A third, nor red nor white had stolen of both. 
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ; 
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth 

A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. 
But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee. 
William Shakspeee. 



The bird sings upon the thorn 
Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie O, 
Rejoicing in the summer morn, 
Nae care to mak' it eerie O ; 
But little kens the sangster sweet 
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet, 
That gar my restless bosom beat. 
My only jo and dearie O. 

When we were bairnies on yon brae, 
And youth was blinking bonny O, 

Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day 
Ours joys fu' sweet and mony O ; 



SOJfG. 

(From " Merchant of Venice," Act III., Scene 2.) 

fELL me, where is fancy bred, 
Or in the heart, or in the head ? 
How begot, how nourished ? 
Reply. It is engender'd in the ej'es. 

With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies : 
Let us all ring fancy's knell; 

I'll begin it, Ding, dong, bell. 

All. Ding, dong, bell. 

W1LLIA.M Shaksper:^ 



POEMS OF AFFECTION". 



155 




"The careless days of peace and pleasure, 
The nights of pure repose !" 

YOUR COMIXG. 



KNOW, not, love, when first you found me, 
What instinct led you here : 
I know the world has changed around me 

Since once you came so near. 
I yield a thousand claims to nourish this, 

At last the dearest hope, the nearest tie ; 
And looking but to you for happiness, 
Happy am I. 

How lightly passed the maiden leisure 

That youth and freedom chose. 
The careless days of peace and pleasure. 

The nights of pure repose ! 
So swift a touch could set the tune amiss ! 

So brief a shadow blot the morning sky! 
Yet if the heart be made for happiness, 
Happy am I. 

love, your coming taught me trouble ; 



Your parting taught me pain. 
My breath grew quick, my blood ran double — 

It leaped in every vein. 
Yet, ah! has time outdone the lover's kiss. 

The look — the burning look — the low reply? 
If these be all he holds of happiness, 
Happy am I. 

You lend to earth a vague emotion ; 

My self a stranger seems ; 
Your glance is mixed with sky and ocean ; 

Your voice is heard in dreams. 
The good I choose is weighed with that I 
miss, 
My idlest laughter mated with a sigh, 
And moving only in your happiness, 
Happy am I. 

Poiu Read Goodai^e, 



156 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



QUA CURSUM YEXTVS. 
<^\ S ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 



With canvas drooping side by side, 
Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 

When fell the night, up sprang the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied. 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving side by side : 

E'en so — ^but why the tale reveal 
Of those, whom year by year unchanged. 

Brief absence joined anew to feel. 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged. 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed. 
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
Brave barks ! In light and darkness too. 

Through winds and tides one compass guides- 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 

But, O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
Though ne'er that earliest parting past. 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought. 
One purpose bold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas I 
At last, at last, unite them there. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



TEE CHESS-BOARD. 

/1J\Y little love, do you remember, 
vJ?/ Ere we were grown so sadly w^ise, 
Those evenings in the bleak December, 
Curtained warm from the snowy weather. 
When you and I played chess together. 
Checkmated by each other's eyes? 

Ah ! still I see your soft white hand 
Hovering warm o'er queen and knight ; 

Brave pawns in valiant battle stand ; 

The double castles guard the wings ; 

The bishop, bent on distant things. 
Moves sidling through the fight. 

Our fingers touch, our glances meet 
And falter, falls your golden hair 
Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving ; dpwn the field, your queen 



Bides slow her soldiery all between, 
And checks me unaware. 

Ah me I the little battle's done. 
Dispersed is all its chivalry. 
FuU many a move since then, have we 
' Mid life's perplexing checkers made. 
And many a game wdth fortune played — 

What is it we have won ? 
This, this, at least— if this alone— 

That never, never, never more, 

As in those old, still nights of yore— 
Ere we were grown so sadly wise- 
Can you and I shut out the skies. 

Shut out the world and wintry weather. 
And eyes exchanging w^armth with eyes. 

Play chess as then we played together ! 

Edward Robert, Earl Lytton. 

("•Oweii Meredilli.") 




Edward Robert, Earl Lytton. 



''TAKE, OH TAKE THOSE LIPS 
AWAY." 

(From " Tbe Passionate Pilgrim." Also found in 
" Measure for Measure," Act IV., Scene 1. It occurs in 
tlie " Rollo" of Beaumont and Fletcher, to whom it is of- 
ten attributed.) 

fAKE, oh take those lips away. 
That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
And those eyes, the break of day. 

Lights that do mislead the morn I 
But my kisses bring again. 
Seals of love, but sealed in vain ! 

WtLLUM ShAKSPEREo 



POEMS OF JOY AKD SORROW. 



157 




" By hood and tippet sheltered sweet 
Her face with youth and health was beaming." 

THE DOORSTEP, 

^^ w^h ^'''''''' '^T^t''^ *^'''^^^ ^* ^^'^' ^«* ^^^^^^ he that leaps the waU 
tL. I ^^ ^"^^^^*h^ ^.^^^^^ ^'^ited, By level musket-flashes 1^^ 

To see the girls come ripping past Than I, who stepped before them all 
Like snow-birds willing to be mated. Who longed to'^see me get he mitten. 



158 



/^ 




POEMS OF AFFECTION". 



^^%^. 








/ // ^ 



^^y^^ 



'ft^v^ OT^ ^:i5<^c^ . O^ '^ . ^ ^ . 




^£^ /^c^ ^cl^ ^^^2.-<^ /^4^*/Z^ 











But no, she blushed and took my arm! 

We let the old folks have the highway, 
And started toward the Maple Farm 

Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 

I can't remember what we said, 

'Twas nothing worth a song or story, 



Yet that rude path by whicb we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 
The moon was full, the tields were gleam- 
ing; 
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



150 



Ser face witli youth and health was beam- 
ing. 

The little hand outside her muif— 
O sculptor, if you could hut mould it ! 

So lightly touched my jacket-cuif, 
To keep it warm I had to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone — 
'Twas love and fear and triumph blended: 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 

She shook her ringlets from her hood, 
And with a " Thank you, Xed," dissembled, 

But yet I knew she understood 
With what a daring wish I trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overhead. 
The moon was slyly peeping through it. 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 
" Come, now or never, do it, do it ! " 

My lips till then had only known 

The kiss of mother and of sister. 
But somehow, full upon her own 
Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her! 



Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, 
O listless Avoman I weary lover ! 

To feel once more that fresh wild thrill, 
I'd give— But who can live youth over? 
Edmund Clarence Stedman, 



MUSIC AjYD LOVE. 

(From Twelfth Night, Act I., Scene 1.) 

F music be the food of love, play on. 
Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting. 
The appetite may sicken, and so die. — 
That strain again ; — it had a dying fall : 
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south. 
That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
Stealing, and giving odour. — Enough; no 

more; 
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before. 
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou I 
That notwithstanding thy capacity 
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there. 
Of what validity and pitch soever. 
But falls into abatement and low price. 
Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is fancy, 
That it alone is high-fantastical. 

William Shakspere. 



FROM "TIlE SOJVG OF THE CAMP." 

^'KjUj ^OAAjj 0{ -^^ ^i^<jt ^£^ ^ ^CULUJL.^ 






/c/^^^^^"^"*^ *'^'-^y^ 




160 



POEMS OF AFFECTION". 




"In hosts the lilies, white and large, 
Lay close with hearts of downy gold. 



THE LILY POJfD. 



§OME fairy spirit with his wand, 
I think, has hovered o'er the dell, 
And spread this film upon the pond, 
And touched it with this drowsy spell. 

For here the musing soul is merged 
In woods no other scene can bring. 

And sweeter seems the air when scourged 
With wandering wild-bee's murmuring. 

One ripple streaks the little lake. 
Sharp purple-blue ; the birches, thin 

And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break 
To let a straying sunbeam in. 

How came we through the yielding wood, 
That day, to this sweet-rustling shore ? 



Oh! there together while we stood, 
A butterfly was wafted o'er 

In sleepy light ; and even now 
His glimmering beauty doth return 

Upon me when the soft winds blow. 
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. 

The yielding wood ? And yet t'was loth 
To yield unto our happy march ; 

Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both 
Could pass its green, elastic arch. 

Yet there, at last, upon the marge 
We found ourselves, and there, behold, 

In hosts the lilies, white and large. 
Lay close with hearts of downy gold! 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



161 



Deep in the weedy waters spread 
The rootlets of the placid bloom : 

So sprung my love's flower, that was bred 
In deep still waters of hearts-gloom. 

So sprung ; and so that morn was nursed 
To live in light and on the pool 

Wherein its roots were deep immersed, 
Burst into beauty broad and cool. 

Few words were said as moments passed ; 

I know not how it came — that awe 
And ardor of a glance that cast 

Our love in universal law. 

But all at once a bird sang loud. 
From dead twigs of the gloamy beach, 

His notes dropped dewy, as from a cloud, 
A blessing on our married speech. 

Ah, love ! how fresh and rare, even now, 
That moment and that mood return 

Upon me, when the soft winds blow, 
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn ! 

George Parsons Lathrop. 



BALCOJ^Y SCEJVE. 

(From "Romeo and Juliet," Act II., Scene 2,) 

tOM. He jests at scars, that never felt 
a wound. — 

[Juliet appears above at a window. 
But, soft ! what light through yonder window 

breaks ? 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! — 
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon. 
Who is already sick and pale with grief, 
That thou her maid art far more fair than she: 
Be not her maid, since she is envious ; 
Her vestal livery is but sick and green. 
And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off. — 
It is my lady ; O, it is my love I 
O, that she knew she were ! — 
She speaks, yet she says nothing ; what of 

that? 
Her eye discourses, I will answer it. — 
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks : 
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven. 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in the spheres till they return. 
What if her eyes were there, they in her 

head? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame 

those stars. 
As daylight doth a lamp ; her eye in heaven, 



Would through the airy region stream so 

bright. 
That birds would sing and think it were not 

night . 
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! 
O, that I were a glove upon that hand. 
That I might touch that cheek. 

William Shakspere. 



TBEU UJfD FEST. 

<^OME blame the years that fly so fast, 
ij) And sigh o'er loves and friendships 

gone; 
While others say too long they last, 
And wish each day were earlier done. 

But thou art none of these — to thee 
The past is past ; past not in vain. 

Days lived in life's reality — 
What need to wish them here again ? 

Days hallowed each by noble use — 
What need to wish them earlier done ? 

Who spend their souls in time's abuse 
Are eager for to-morrow's sun. 

Thy trust and rest unbroken are ; 

In God's appointed pathway still 
Thy constant spirit, like a star, 

Moves on accomplishing His will. 

Anonymous. 



TEE BLUE-EYED LASSIE, 

GAED a waefu' gate yestere'en, 
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 



'Twas not her golden ringlets bright. 
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew. 

Her heaving bosom, lily-white ; 
It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled, 
She charmed my soul, I wist na how ; 

And aye the stound, the deadly wound. 
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 

But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow ; 
Should she refuse, I'U lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 

Robert Burns. 




" Nestle closely, little hand, 

Closely, warmly clasped in mine !" 



POEMS OF AFFECTION". 



163 



d MADRIGAL. 

(From the Spanish.) 

MESTLE closely, little hand, 
Closely, warmly clasped in mine ! 
While across this evening land 
Fainter grows the sunset-shine, 
And a low breeze thrills the pine, 
Then serenely dies away 
Past the stranded wreck of day ; 
Linger, little hand, in mine ! 

Whisper, voice of liquid tone. 

Whisper in thy captive's ear; 
Of all voices Earth has known. 

Thine is sweetest, Love, to hear; 

Heaven therein seems strangely near, 
Since it hath the fall and rise 
Of the rills of Paradise 

On the soul's enraptured ear ! 

Tremble, oh ! thou tender breast, 

But for joy that, borne apart. 
Love hath built for love a nest 

In his deep entranced heart. 

There, my gentler self, thou art, 
(While for thy pure-thoughted sake 
All the songs of Eden wake) 

Sheltered, tranquil and apart. 

Flutter nigh me, timorous lips, 

Coy as bird-wings poised for flight ; 
Ah! but twilight's half eclipse 

Slowly melteth into night ; 

Then ye faltering lips alight, 
Soft as dew-falls of the South, 
On a softly answering mouth. 

Surely veiled by gracious night, 
Hidden with the flickering flush 
Of his own delicious blush, 

Love may kiss, and kiss aright ! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



" OH, HAD MY LO VE J{E 'ER 
SMILED OJf me:' 

(From '• Tlie Duenna." ) 

§H, had my love ne'er smiled on me, 
I ne'er had known such anguish ; 
But think how false, how cruel she. 

To bid me cease to languish ! 
To bid me hope her hand to gain. 

Breathe on a flame half perished ; 
And then with cold and fixed disdain, 
To kill the hope she cherished ! 

Not worse his fate, who on a wreck, 

That drove as winds did blow it. 
Silent had left the shattered deck. 

To find a grave below it ; 
Then land was cried — no more resigned. 

He glowed with joy to hear it ; 
Not worse his fate, his woe, to find 

The wreck must sink ere near it. 

ElCHAED BrINSLEY ShERIDAX. 



SEREJ^ADE. 

(From " The Pirate.'") 

T^f OVE wakes and weeps, while Beauty 
Mf sleeps! 

O for music's softest numbers, 
To prompt a theme for Beauty's dream, 

Soft as the pillow of her slumbers ! 

Through groves of palm sigh gales of balm, 
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling ; 

While through the gloom comes soft perfume, 
The distant beds of flowers revealing. 

O wake and live ! No dream can give 
A shadowed bliss the real excelling ; 

No longer sleep ; from lattice peep, 
And list the tale that Love is telling ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



0' 



LOVE. 

(From "The Minister's Wooing." 

^O not listen to hear whom a woman praises, to know where her heart is ; do not ask for 
whom she expresses the most earnest enthusiasm. But if there be one she once knew 
well, whose name she never speaks ; if she seems to have an instinct to avoid every oc- 
casion of its mention ; if, when you speak, she drops into silence and changes the sub- 
ject— why, look there for something!— just as. when getting through deep meadow-grass, a 
bird flies ostentatiously up before you, you may know her nest is not there, but far off under 
distant tufts of fern and buttercup, through which she has crept, with a silent flutter in her 
spotted breast, to act her pretty little falsehood before you. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



164 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



WHEJf STARS ABE 

W'HEN" stars are in the quiet skies, 
Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea ; 
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, 

Are stillest when they shine ; 
Mine earthly love lies hushed in light, 
Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angels keep 

Familiar watch o'er men. 
When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep ; 

Sweet Spirit, meet me then ! 



IJV THE QUIET SKIES. 

There is an hour when holy dreams 
Through slumber fairest glide. 

And in that mystic hour it seems 
Thou shouldst be by my side. 

My thoughts of thee too sacred are 

For daylight's common beam ; 
I can but know thee as my star, 

My angel, and my dream ! 
When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea. 

Sir Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton. 




"When stars are in the quiet skies, 
Then most I pine for thee." 



THE SWEET JVEGLECT. 

(From ''The Silent Woman.") 

'TILL to be neat, still to be dressed Give me a look, give me a face 



Jii) As you were going to a feast. 
Still to be powdered, still perfumed; 
Lady, it is to be presumed. 
Though art's hid causes are not found. 
All is not sweet, all is not sound. 



That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free ; 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art ! 
They strike my eyes, but not my heart. 
Ben Jonson. 



POEMS OF AFFECTIOlSr. 



165 



"DO YOU REMEMBER HOW WE 

USED TO RACEr 

^gvO you remember how we used to pace 
11/ Under the lindens, by the garden wall ? 
It was a homely, but secluded place, 

Safe sheltered from the prying gaze of all. 

Deep in the azure distance loomed the tall, 
Grand, heathery hills, and one bluff-headland 

high 
Rose, rain-crowned, against the golden sky ; 

How lovingly around you seemed to fall 
Those linden shadows, when you laid aside 

Your hat, in the hot noon, and let the air 

Kiss cheek and forehead, while I fetched 
you rare 
Red-coated peaches, or the purple pride 
Of grapes, stiU glowing with the autumn sun I 
And we sipped other fruit too, little one. 

Thomas West wood. 



JEAXIE MORRISOK. 

'VE wandered east, I've wandered west. 
Through many a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day : 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 



dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
The thochts o' bygane years 

Still fling their shadows ower my path 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine, 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' lang syne. 

'Twas then we luvet ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time ! sad time ! twa bairns at schule, 

Twa bairns and but ae heart ! 
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones and looks and smiles were shed. 

Remembered ever mair. 

1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet. 
When sitting on that bink. 

Cheek touchin' cheek, loop locked in loop, 

What our wee heads could think ? 
When baitb b^nt dpun pwer ae braid page 



We' ae bulk on our knee, 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
My lesson was in thee. 

Oh mind ye how we hung our heads. 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
When'er the schule-weans laughin' said 

We decked thegither hame ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The schule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran off to speel the braes. 

The broomy braes of June ? 

My head rins round and round about. 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' schule-time and o' thee. 

mornin' life ! O mornin' luve ! 
O lichtsome days and lang. 

When hinnied hopes around our hearts 
Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

Oh, mind ye, luve, how oft we left 

The deaven' dinsome toun, 
To wander by the green burnside. 

And hear its waters croon? 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 

The flowers burst round our feet. 
And in the gloamin' o' the wood 

The throssil whusslit sweet ; 

The throssil whusslit in the wood. 

The burn sang to the trees. 
And we with nature's heart in tune 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And, on the knowe abune the burne, 

For hours thegither sat 
I' the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Ah, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek. 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak : 
That was a time, a blessed time 

When hearts were fresh and young. 
When freely gushed all feelings forth 

Unsyllabled, unsung! ' 

1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
Gin I hae been to thee 

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me ? 
Oh ! tell gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ? 



166 



POEMS OF AFFECTION^. 



Oh ! say, gin e'er jour heart grows grit 
Wi' dreamings o' lang syne ? 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a weary lot; 
But in my wanderings far or near, 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this heart 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it runs, 

The luve o' life's young day. 

Oh dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 
I've never seen your face nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness. 

And happy could I die. 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygone days and me. 

WiLLiAZM Motherwell. 




William Motherwell. 



COME IJ^TO THE GARDEJf, 
MAUD. 

(From " Maud.") 

/J^OME into the garden, Maud, 

>®/ For the black bat, night, has flown! 

C^pme into the garden, Maud, 



I am here at the gate alone ; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves. 
And the Planet of Love is on high. 

Beginning to faint In the light that she loves. 
On a bed of daffodil sky, — 

To fjiint in the light of the sun that she loves. 
To faint in its light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune, — 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Kow half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine ; 
O young lord-lover, ^\hat sighs are those 

For one that will never be thine ! 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose 

" Forever and ever mine I" 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 

As the music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For 1 heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow, and on to the 
wood, 

Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 
From the meadow your walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs. 
He sets the jewel print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake. 
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 

But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake, 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



167 



Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 
They sighed for the dawn and thee. 



Queen-rose of the rose-bud garden of girls, 
Come hither! the dances are done-; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
curls. 
To the flowers and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ! 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near;" 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late ;" 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ;" 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 



She is coming, my own, my sweet ! 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthly bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfked Tennyson. 



While the silver stars ride on that river. 

But this you may know : If you clasp Love's 
wings. 
And you hold him hard by that river. 
Why, his eyes grow green, and he turns and 
he stings. 
And the waters wax ley and shiver ; 
The waters wax chill and the silvery wings 
Of Love they are broken, as broken heart- 
strings, 
While darkness comes down on that river. 

Joaquin Miller. 



WHO IS LOVE? 

'HY, Love, my love is a dragon fly 
That weaves by the beautiful river, 
Where waters flow warm, where willows 
droop by. 
Where lilies dip waveward and quiver. 
Where stars of heaven they shine for aye. 
If you take not hold of that dragon fly. 
By the musical, mystical river. 

Let Love go his ways ; let the lilies grow 

By that beautiful silvery river ; 
Let tall tules nod ; let noisy reeds blow ; 

Let the lilies' lips open and quiver ; 
But when Love may come, or when Love may 

go, 
You may guess and may guess, but jom never 
shall know, 




Joaquin Miller. 



SOJfG. 

§HE is not fair to outward view, 
As many maidens be ; 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me ; 
Oh ! then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 



But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply ; 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye ; 
Her very frowns are fairer far 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Haet^^y Coleridge, 



168 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



''BOJ^'T BE SORROWFUL, DAR- 
LmG." 

§ DON'T be sorrowful, darling! 
And don't be sorrowful, pray ; 
Taking the year together, my dear, 
There isn't more night than day. 

'Tis rainy weather, my darling ; 

Time's waves they heavily run ; 
But taking the year together, my dear. 

There isn't more cloud than sun. 

We are old folks now, my darling. 

Our heads are growing gray ; 
But taking the year all around, my dear. 

You will always find the May. 

We have had our May, my darling. 

And our roses long ago ; 
And the time of the year is coming, my dear. 

For tlio silent night and the snow. 

But God is God, my darling, 
Of the night as well as the day ; 

And we feel and know^ that we can go 
Wherever He leads the way. 

A God of the night, my darling. 

Of the night of death so grim ; 
The gate that leads out of life, good wife, 

Is the gate that leads to Him. 

ReiMbrandt Feale. 



A WOMAJ^'S QUESTIOJ^. 

BEFORE I trust my fate to thee, 
Or place my hand in thine, 
Before I let thy future give 
Color and form to mine. 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul 
to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret; 
Is there one link within the Past 

That holds thy spirit yet ? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which 
I can pledge to thee ? 

Does there within my dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine. 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 

Untouched, unshared by mine? 
If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all 
is lost. 

Look deeper still. If thou cans't feel, 
Within thy inmost squI, 



That thou hast kept a portion back, 

While I have staked the whole. 
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true 
mercy tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfill ? 
One chord that any other hand 

Could better wake or still? 
Speak now — lest at some future day my 
whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit change, 
Shedding a passing glory still 

On all things new and strange ? 
It may not be thy fault alone — but shield my 
heart against thine own. 

Could'st thou withdraw thy hand one day 

And answer to my claim. 
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — 

Not thou — had been to blame ? 
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou 
wilt surely warn and save me now. 

Nay, answer not — I dare not hear. 
The words would come too late ; 
Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 

So comfort thee, my Fate, — 
Whatever on my heart may fall— remember I 
would risk it all I 

Adelaide Anxe Procter. 



TEE COQUETTE. 

M^CHATSOE'ER she vowed to-day, 
lili) Ere a week had fled away, 

She'd refuse me ; 
And shall I her steps pursue. 
Follow still, and fondly too ? 

No, excuse me ? 

If she love me, it were kind 
Just to teach me her own mind ; 

Let her lose me ! 
For no more I'll seek her side, 
Court her favor, feed her pride ; 

No, excuse me ! 

Let her frown ; frowns never kill ; 
Let her shun me, if she will. 

Hate, abuse me ; 
Shall I bend 'neath her annoy. 
Bend, and make my heart a toy ? 

No, excuse me ! 

Charles Swajn, 



4 



i 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



169 



HOW DO I LOVE THEE? 

BOW do I love thee? Let me count tlie 
ways: 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and 

height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of each day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's 

faith. 
I love thee with a love I seem to lose 
With my lost saints,— I love thee with the 

breath. 
Smiles, tears, of all my life!— and, if God 

choose, 
I shaU but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Bakrett Browning. 



LOVE'S IMPRESS. 

EE, light foot on a noble heart she set, 
L^[ And went again on her heedless way, 
Vain idol of so steadfast a regret 
As never but with life could pass away. 

Youth and youth's easy virtues, made her fair; 

Triumphant through the sunny hours she 
ranged. 
Then came the winter — bleak, unlovely, bare, 

Still ruled her image over one unchanged. 

So, where some trivial creature played of old. 
The warm soft clay received the tiny dint ; 

We cleave the deep rock's bosom, and behold. 
Sapped in its core the immemorial print. 

Men marvel such frail record should outlive 
The vanished forests and the hiUs o'er hurl- 
ed ; 
But high, souled love can keep a type alive 
Which has no living answer in the world. 

E. Hinx:man. 




Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine." 



TO CELIA. 



m 



jRINK to me only with thine eyes, 
EJ And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that fi'om the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine. 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 



11 



I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee. 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withered be ; 
But thou thereon did'st only breathe, 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when, it grows and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee. 

Ben Jonsox. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



171 



OTHELZaS DEFEJfSE. 

(From "Othello," Act I., Scene 3.) 

<^0 justly to your grave ears I'll present 
5J) How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, 
And she in mine. 
Buke. Say it, Othello. 
0th. Her father lov'd me ; oft invited me ; 
Still question'd me the story of my life, 
From year to year; the battles, sieges, for- 
tunes. 
That I have pass'd. 

I ran it through, even from my boyish days. 
To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances. 
Of moving accidents by flood, and field ; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent dead- 
ly breach ; 
Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption 

thence. 
And portance in my travel's history : 
Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle. 
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads 

touch heaven. 
It was my hint to speak, such was the pro- 
cess; 
And of the cannibals that each other eat. 
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders. These 

things to hear. 
Would Desdemona seriously incline : 
But still the house-affairs would draw her 

thence ; 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 
Devour up my discourse : Which I observing, 
Took once a pliant hour; and found good 

means. 
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart. 
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate. 
Whereof by parcels, she had something heard, 
But not intentively. I did consent; 
And often did beguile her tears. 
When I did speak of some distressful stroke. 
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done. 
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs ; 
She swore, — In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas 

passing strange ; 
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : 
She wish'd she had not heard it ; yet she 

wish'd 
That heaven had made her such a man : she 

thank'd me ; 
And bade me, if I had friend that lov'd her, 



I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I 

spake : 
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd ; 
And I lov'd her, that she did pity them. 
This only is the witchcraft I have us'd ; 
Here comes the lady, let her witness it. 

Willia:m Shakspeee. 



LOCHIjYVAR. 

(From "Marmion," Canto V.) 

§H, young Lochinvar is come out of the 
west. 

Through all the wide border his steed was the 
best; 

And save his good broadsword, he weapons 
had none. 

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 

There never was knight like the young Loch- 
invar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not 

for stone. 
He swam the Eske river where ford there was 

none; 
But, ere he alighted at ]!^etherby gate. 
The bride had consented, the gallant came 

late ; 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and broth- 
ers, and all; 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 

sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 

word) , 
Oh come ye in peace, here, or come ye in war. 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Loch- 
invar?" 

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you 

denied ; 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its 

tide ; 
And now I am come, with this lost love of 

mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 

wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by 

far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvaxo" 



172 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took 

it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down 

the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up 

to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her 

eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could 

bar; 
"IN'ow tread we a measure," said young 

Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 

While her mother did fret and her father did 
fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bon- 
net and plume, 

And the bride-maidens whispered: " 'Twere 
better by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with young 
Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her 

ear. 
When they reached the hall-door, and the 

charger stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung : 
" She is won ! we are gone over bank, bush, 

and scaur ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth 

young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 

Netherby clan ; 
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode 

and they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie 

Lee, 
But the lost bride of N'etherby ne'er did they 

see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochinvar? 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Unheralded she came and went, 
Like music in the silent night. 

Which, when the burthened air is spent, 
Bequeaths to memory its delight. 

Or like the sudden April bow 
That spans the violet-waking rain, 

She bade those blessed flowers to grow 
Which may not fall or fade again. 

Far sweeter than all things most sweet, 
And fairer than all things most fair. 

She came and passed with foot-steps fleet, 
A shining wonder in the air. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



ABSEJfCE. 

'jWJIS not the loss of love's assurance, 
"P It is not doubting what thou art, 

But 'tis the too, too long endurance 
Of absence, that afllicts the heart. 

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, 
When each is lonely doomed to weep. 

Are fruits on desert isles that perish, 
Or riches buried in the deep. 

What though untouched by jealous madness, 
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck, 

Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sad- 
ness. 
Is but more slowly doomed to break. 

Absence ! is not the soul torn by it 
From more than light, or life, or breath ? 

'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, — 
The pain without the peace of death. 

Thomas Campbell. 



A GLIMPSE OF LOVE. 

<^HE came as comes the summer wind, 
Jij) A gust of beauty to my heart ; 
Then swept away ; but left behind 
Emotions which shall not depart. 



RUTH. 

^HE stood breast-high amid the corn, 
® Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweet-heart of the sun. 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush, 
Deeply ripened ; such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born. 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell ; 
Which were blackest none could teU, 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



173 



But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Makes her tressy forehead dim ; 
Thus she stood among the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. • 

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
Share my harvest and my home. 

Thomas Hood. 



(From "Aglaura.") 

*HY so pale and wan, fond lover ? 
Pry thee, why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 
Looking ill prevail ? 
Prythee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Prythee, why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her. 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prythee, why so mute ? 

Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move. 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her. 

The devil take her ! 

Sir John Suckling. 



SEJYD BACK MY HEART. 

PRYTHEE send me back my heart, 
Since I cannot have thine ; 
For if from yours you will not part. 
Why then should'st thou have mine ? 



Yet now I think on't, let it lie. 

To find it were in vain. 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
And yet not lodge together '? 

O Love, where is thy sympathy. 
If thus our breasts thou sever? 

But Love is such a mystery 

I cannot find it out, 
For when I think I'm best resolved, 

I then am most in doubt. 



Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 

I will no longer pine ; 
For I'll believe I have her heart 

As much as she has mine. 

Sir John Suckling. 




Sir John Suckling. 



LOVE. 



(From "The Maiden Queeu.") 

FEED a flame within, which so torments 

me. 
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents 

me; 
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it. 
That I had rather die, than once remove it. 
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know 

it; 
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show 

it. 
Not a sigh nor a tear my pain discloses. 
But they fall silently, like dew on roses. 
Thus to prevent my love from being cruel. 
My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel ; 
And while I sufler this to give him quiet. 
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it. 
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me ; 
Where I conceal my love no frown can fright 

me; 
To be more happy, I dare not aspire ; 
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher. 

John Dryden. 



174 



POEMS OF AFFECTTON^. 




** Maiden crowned with glossy blackness, 
Lithe as panther forest roaming, 
Long-armed naiad, when she dances. 
On a stream of ether floating, 

Bright, O bright Fedalmal" 



POEMS 01^ AFFilCTIOlSf. 



17o 



BRIGHT, O BRIGHT FEB ALMA I 

(From "The Spanish Grj-psy.") 

/^ipVAIDETsT, crowned with glossy blackness, 
\^L Lithe as panther forest roaming, 
Long-armed naiad, when she dances. 
On a stream of ether floating, 
Bright, O bright Fedalma ! 

From all curves, like softness drifted, 
Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling, 

Far-ofF music slowly winged. 
Gently rising, gently sinking, 
Bright, O bright Fedalma ! 

Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf, 

Cloud high-born in noon-day spotless. 

Sudden perfect as the dew-bead, 
Gem of earth and sky begotten. 
Bright, O bright Fedalma I 

Beauty has no mortal father, 

Holy light her form engendered 
Out of tremor, yearning, gladness. 
Presage sweet and joy remembered, 
Child of light, Fedalma I 

Mariajt Evans Cross. 

(" George Eliot." ) 



A HEALTH 

1 FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness 

i alone ; 

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming par- 
agon ; 

To whom the better elements and kindly 
stars have given 

A form so fair that, like the air, 'tis less of 
earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, like those of 

morning birds. 
And something more than melody dwells ever 

in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, and from 

her heart each flows, 
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue 

from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, the meas- 
ure of her hours ; 

Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness 
of young flowers ; 

And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, 
she appears 



The image of themselves by turns, the idol of 
past years. 

Of her bright face one glance will trace a 

picture on the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound 

must long remain ; 
But memory such as mine of her so very much 

endears, 
When death is nigh, my latest sigh will be not 

life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness 
alone ; 

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming par- 
agon ; 

Her health! and would on earth there stood 
some more of such a frame ! 

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a 
name. 

Edward Coaxes Pes^kney. 



THE GOLB-HVMTER. 

(From "The Arizouian.'") 

GATHEEED the gold I had hid in the 
earth. 

Hid over the door and hid under the hearth. 
Hoarded and hid, as the world went over. 
For the love of a blonde by a sun-browned 

lover ; 
And I said to myself, as I set my face 
To the East and afar from the desolate place, 
"She has braided her tresses, and through 

tears 
Looked away to the West for years, the years 
That I have wrought where the sun tans 
brown ; 
She has waked by night, she has watched 

by day. 
She has wept and wondered at my delay, 
Alone and in tears with her head held down. 
Where the ships sail out and the seas swirl in. 
Forgetting to knit and refusing to spin. 
She shall lift her head, she shall see her lover. 
She shall hear his voice like a sea that 
rushes. 
She shall hold his gold in her hands of 

snow. 
And down on his breast she shall hide 

her blushes. 
And never a care shall her true heart know, 
While the clods are below or the clouds are 
above her." 

Joaqdin Miller. 



176 



POEMS OF AFFECTIOl^. 



FAREWELL TO J{AXCY. 

tE fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae farewell, alas forever! 
Beep in lieart-wrung tears I'U pledge thee. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy^ 
Naething could resist my JSTancy ; 
Bat to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met, or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted ! 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest I 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Robert Burns. 



THE LADY'S LOOinj^G-GLASS. 

/fNELIA and I, the other day, 

V© Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea ; 

The setting sun adorned the coast. 

His beams entire his fierceness lost, 

And on the surface of the deep 

The wind lay only not asleep. 

The nymph did, like the scene, appear 

Serenely pleasant, calmly fair ; 

Soft fell her words as flew the air. 

With secret joy I heard her say 

That she would never miss one day 

A walk so flne, a sight so gay. 

But, O, the change ! The winds grow high, 
Impending tempests charge the sky, 
The lightning flies, the thunder roars. 
The big waves lash the frightened shores. 
Struck with the horror of the sight. 
She turns her head and wings her flight. 
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again 
Approach the shore or view the main. 

" Once more at least look back," said I, 
Thyself in that large glass descry ; 



When thou art in good humor dressed, 
When gentle reason rules thy breast, 
The sun upon the calmest sea 
Appears not half so bright as thee ; 
'Tis then that with delight I rove 
Upon the boundless depth of love ; 
I bless my chain, I hand mine oar, 
Nor think on all I left on shore. 

" But when vain doubt and groundless fear 
Do that dear foolish bosom tear. 
When the big lip and watery eye 
Tell me the rising storm is nigh, 
'Tis then thou art yon angry main, 
Deformed by winds and dashed by rain ; 
And the poor sailor that must try 
Its fury, labors less than I. 
Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make. 
While love and fate still drive me back ; 
Forced to dote on thee thy own way, 
I chide thee first, and then obey ; 
Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh, 
I with thee, or without thee, die. 

Matthew Prior. 



WOOLJVG STUFFE. 

fAINT amorist, what ! dost thou think 
To taste love's honey, and not drink 
One drop of gall ? or to devour 
A world of sweet, and taste no sour ? 
Dost thou e'er think to enter 
The Ely si an fields, that durst not venture 
In Charon's barge ? A lover's mind 
Must use to sail with every wind. 
He that loves, and fears to try, 
Learns his mistress to deny. 
Doth she chide thee? 'Tis to show it, 
That thy coldness makes her do it. 
Is she silent ? Is she mute ? 
Silence fully grants thy suit. 
Doth she pout, and leave the room ? 
Then she goes to bid thee come. 
Is she sick ? Why, then, be sure. 
She invites thee to the cure. 
Doth she cross thy suit with no ? 
Tush! she loves to hear thee woo. 
Doth she question faith of man ? 
Nay, forsooth, she loves thee then. 
He that after ten denials 
Dares attempt no further trials. 
Hath no warrant to acquire 
The dainties of his chaste desire. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



177 



I 



"BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE 

EJSrDEARIJYG YOVKG 

CHARMSr 

BELIEVE me, if aU those endearing young 
charms, 
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, . 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my 
arms. 
Like fairy gifts, fading away. 
Thou would st still be adored, as this moment 
thou art. 
Let thy loveliness fade as it will. 
And around the dear ruin each wish of my 
heart 
Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine 
own, 
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear. 
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be 
known. 
To which time will but make thee more 
dear. 
No, the heart that has truly loved never for- 
gets, 
But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he 
sets. 
The same look which she turned when he 
rose. 

Thomas Moore. 



LOVE. 

(From "The Curse of Kehama.") 

fHEY sin who tell us love can die. 
With Life all other passions fly. 
All others are but vanity. 

In heaven ambition cannot dweU, 

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 
Earthly, these passions of the earth, 
They perish where they had their birth. 

But Love is indestructible. 
Its holy flame forever burneth. 
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; 
Too oft on earth a troubled guest. 
At times deceived, at times oppressed. 

It here is tried and purified. 
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest ; 
It soweth here with toil and care, 
But the harvest-time of Love is there. 
Oh ! when a mother meets on high 
The babe she lost in infancy. 
Hath she not then, for pains and fears, 

The day of woe, the watchful night, 



For all her sorrows, all her tears. 
An over-payment of delight? 

Robert Southey. 




KoBERT Southey. 



" 'tis like a tale of oldej^ 
time:' 

tH! 'tis like a tale of olden time. 
Long, long ago ; 
When the world was in its golden prime. 

And Love was lord below ! 
Every vein of Earth was dancing 

With the Spring's new wine ; 
'Twas the pleasant time of flowers 
When I met you, love of mine ! 

Ah ! some spirit sure was straying 

Out of heaven that day. 
When I met you, Sweet! a-Maying 

In that merry, merry May. 
Little heart! it shyly opened 

Its red leaves' love lore, 
Like a rose that must be ripened 

To the dainty, dainty core. 

But its beauties daily brightened. 

And it blooms so dear, 
Though a many winters whiten, 

I go Maying all the year. 
And my proud heart will be praying 

Blessings on the day 
When I met you. Sweet, a-Maying, 

In that merry, merry May. 

Gerald Massey. 




c ^ ^, ^</V<^^-^^-^ 



I*OEMS O^ AFFECTIOK 

HOLLOW IS THE OAK BESIDE 

MOLLOW is the oak beside 
The sunny waters drooping; 
when I was young, 



m 



Thither came, 

Happy children trooping ; 
Dream I now, or hear I now, 

Far, their mellow whooping? 

Gay, beneath the cowslip bank. 

See, the billow dances; 
There I lay, beguiling time, 

When I lived romances ; 
Dropping pebbles in the wave, . 

Fancies into fancies. 

Farther, where the river glides. 

By the wooded cover, 
Where the merlin singeth low. 

With the hawk above her, 
Came a foot and shone a smile — 

Woe is me, the lover ! 

Leaflets on the hollow oak 

Still as greenly quiver. 
Musical, amid the reeds. 

Murmurs on the river, 
But the footstep and the smile : 

Woe is me forever ! 
Sm Edward Bulwer, Lord Lyttox. 



So every time when I would yield 
An hour to quiet, comes he still ; 

And hunts up every sign concealed. 
And every outward sign of ill ; 

And gives me his sad face's pleasures. 

For merriment's, or sleep's, or leisure's. 

Thomas Burbidge. 



'' IF I DESIRE WITH PLEASAJYT 

sojfGsr 

IF I desire with pleasant songs 
To throw a merry hour away. 
Comes Love unto me, and my wrongs 

In careful tale he doth display. 
And asks me how I stand for singing. 
While I my helpless hands am wringing. 

And then another time, if I 
A noon and shady bower would pass. 

Comes he with stealthy gesture sly, 
And flinging down upon the grass, 

Quoth he to me, " My master dear. 

Think of this noontide, such a year !" 

And if else while I lay my head 

On pillow, with intent to sleep. 
Lies love beside me on the bed, 

And gives me ancient words to keep ; 
Says he, " These looks, these tokens number : 
Maybe, they'll help you to a slumber." 



EVELYjY HOPE. 

EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! 
^^ Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
Save two long rays through the hinge's 
chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares. 

And now was quiet, now astir. 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the swqet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true. 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew ; 
And just because 1 was thrice as old. 

And our paths in the world diverged so 
wide. 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow-mortals, naught beside ? 

ISTo, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love — 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come, at last it will, 
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall 
say, 

In the lower earth, in the years long still. 
That body and soul so pure and gay ? 

Why your hair was amber, I shali divine, 



180 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



And your mouth of your own geranium's 
red, 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 
In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of so many men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed, or itself missed me. 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope : 

What is the issue ? Let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold ; 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile. 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's 
young gold. 
So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand ; 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 
You wiU wake, and remember, and under- 
stand! 

Robert Browning. 



SOJ^G OF EGLA. 

(From "Zophiel.") 

^J\ AY, in melting purple dying, 
& Blossoms, all around me sighing, 
Fragrance from the lilies straying. 
Zephyr with my ringlets playing. 
Ye but waken my distress ; 
I am sick of loneliness ! 

Thou to whom I love to hearken, 
Come, ere night around me darken I 
Though thy softness but deceive rr-e. 
Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee ; 
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent; 
Let me think it innocent I 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; 
AU I ask is friendship's pleasure ; 
Let the shining ore lie darkling, 
Bring no gem in luster sparkling; 
Gifts and gold are naught to me ; 
I would only look on thee ; 

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling. 

Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation. 

Rapture in participation. 

Yet but torture, if compressed 

In a lone, unfriended breast. 



Absent still ? Ah, come and bless me ! 
Let these eyes again caress thee ! 
Once, in caution, I could fly thee ; 
Now, I nothing could deny thee ; 
In a look if death there be. 
Come, and I will gaze on thee ! 

Maria Gowen Brooks. 



LOVE-LETTERS. 

tS snowdrops come to a wintry world 
Like angels in the night. 
And we see not the Hand who sent us them, 

Though they give us strange delight ; 
And strong as the dew to freshen the flower 

Or quicken the slumbering seed. 
Are those little things called " letters of love," 

To hearts that comfort need. 
For alone in the world, midst toil and sin, 
These still, smaU voices wake music within. 

They come, they come, these letters of love. 

Blessing and being blest. 
To silence fear with thoughts of cheer, 

That give to the weary rest : 
A mother looks out on the angry sea 

With a yearning heart in vain. 
And a father sits musing over the fire, 

As he heareth the wind and the rain ; 
And a sister sits singing a favorite song. 

Unsung for a long, long while. 
Till it brings the thought, with a tear to her 
eye. 

Of a brother's vanished smile ; 
And with hearts and eyes more full than all. 
Two lovers look forth for these blessings to 
fall! 

And they come, they come, these letters of 
love. 

Blessing and being blest, 
To silence fear with thoughts of cheer. 

That give to the weary rest : 
Oh ! never may we be so lonely in life. 

So ruined and lost to love. 
That never an olive branch comes to our ark 

Of home from some cherished dove ; 
And never may we, in happiest hours, 

Or when our prayers ascend. 
Feel that our hearts have grown too cold 

For a thought on an absent friend ! 
For, like summer rain to the fainting flowers. 
They are stars to the heart in its darkest 
hours. 

Rowland Brown. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



181 



SOJ^G: FROM " SUPPER AT TEE MILL." 





182 



POEMS OF AFFECTION". 



OJ^' WOMAJTS i:n'coxstaxcy. 

LOVED thee once, I'll love no more ; 

Thine be the grief, as is the blame ; 
Thou art not what thou wast before. 

What reason I should be the same? 
He that can love, unloved again, 
Hath better store of love than brain ; 
God send me love my debts to pay, 
While unthrifts fool their love away. 



Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, 

If thou hadst still continued mine ; 
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, 

I might, perchance, have yet been thine ; 
But thou thy freedom didst recall. 
That if thou might elsewhere enthrall, 
And then how could I but disdain 
A captive's captive to remain ? 

When new desires had conquered thee, 
And changed the object of thy will, 

It had been lethargy in me, 
Not constancy to love thee still ; 

Yea, it had been a sin to go 

And prostitute affection so. 

Since we are taught no prayers to say 

To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 

I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice 
To see him gain what I have lost ; 

The height of my disdain shall be 

To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 

To love thee, still, but go no more 

A-begging to a beggar's door. 

Sir Robert Ayton. 



AJfjriE LAURIE. 

/|[i\AXWELTON braes are bonnie, 
Vi?/ Where early fa's the dew ; 
And it's there that Annie Laurie 

Gi'ed me her promise true ; 
Gi'ed me her promise true, 

Which ne'er forgot will be ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie, 

I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw-drift. 
Her throat is like the swan ; 

Her face it is the fairest 
That e'er the sun shone on, 



That e'er the sun shone on, 

And dark blue is her ee ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie, 

I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying 

Is the fa' of her fairy feet ; 
Like the winds in summer sighing. 

Her voice is low and sweet; 
Her voice is low and sweet ; 

And she's a' the world to me ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie, 

I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Douglas of Fixglaxd. 



TO ALTHEA, FROM FRISOJV. 

M'jjCHEN Love with unconfined wings 
\il§/ Hovers within my gates. 

And my divine Althea brings 
To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair. 

And fettered to her eye. 
The birds, that wanton in the air. 

Know no such liberty. 



When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crowned, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free. 
Fishes, that tipple in the deep. 

Know no such liberty. 

When, like committed linnets, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my king ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be. 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood. 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make. 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free. 
Angels alone, that soar above. 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Richard Lovelace. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 
SOJfG. 

(From "As You Like It.") 



183 



IT was a lover and his lass, 

i With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino, 

That o'er the green corn-field did pass, 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring-time. 

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding : 

Sweet lovers love the spring. 



Between the acres of the rye, 

With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino. 
These pretty country folks would lie, 
In spring-time, the only pretty ring-time. 

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding : 

Sweet lovers love the spring. 




'his carol they began that hour, 
With a he\ and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
How that a life was but a flower 
In spring-time, the only pretty ring-time. 
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding ; 
Sweet lovers love the spring. 

And, therefore, take the present time, 
With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino, 

For love is crowned with the prime 

In spring-time, the only pretty ring-time. 
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding : 

Sweet lovers love the spring. 

WiLLIAJVI ShaKSPEKI^. 



COMIJ^' THROUGH THE RYE. 



tIN" a body meet a body 
Comin' through the rye. 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Keed a body cry ? 
Every lassie has her laddie, 
^e'er a ane hae I, 



Yet a' the lads they smile at me 
When comin' through the rje. 

Amang the train there is a swain 
I dearly lo'e myseP, 

But whaur his hame or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 



184 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' frae the town, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown ? 
Every lassie has her laddie, 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me, 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e mysel', 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 

I dinna care to tell. 

Anoxymous. 

(Scotland, 18th Century.) 



SOjYG- ''ASK ME J{0 MORE." 

tSK me no more w^here Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your beauties, orient deep. 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For in pure love, heaven did prepare 
These powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when May is past ; 
For in your sweet, dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps w^arm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 



Ask me no more if east or west 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 
For unto you at last Bhe flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

Thomas Carew. 



GO, LOVELY HOSE. 

to, lovely rose : 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
That now^ she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That, hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come forth. 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die! that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee ; 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 
Edmund Wallee. 






POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



185 



JOBJ^ ALDEJT AKB PRISCILLA. 

(From " The Courtship of Miles Standish.") 

§0 he entered the house ; and the hum of 
the wheel and the singing 
Suddenly ceased ; for Priscilla, aroused by his 

step on the threshold, 
Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in 

signal of welcome, 
Saying, " I knew it was you, when I heard 

your step in the passage ; 
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there sing- 
ing and spinning." 
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a 

thought of him had been mingled 
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the 

heart of the maiden. 
Silent before her he stood, and gave her the 

flowers for an answer. 



Then they sat down and talked of the birds 

and the beautiful spring-time. 
Talked of their friends at home, and the May- 
flower that sailed on the morrow. 
" I have been thinking aU day," said gently 

the Puritan maiden, 
" Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of 

the hedge-rows of England ; 
They are in blossom now, and the country is 

all like a garden ; 
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of 

the lark and the linnet ; 
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces 

of neighbors 
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip 

together ; 
And, at the end of the street, the village 

church with the ivy 
Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet 

graves in the churchyard. 
Kind are the people I live with, and dear to 

me my religion ; 
Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself 

back in old England. 
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it ; 

I almost 
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so 

lonely and wretched. 
Thereupon answered the youth: "Indeed, I 

do not condemn you ; 
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in 

this terrible winter. 
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a 

stronger to lean on ; 

12 



So I have come to you now, with an offer and 

proffer of marriage 
Made by a good man and true. Miles Standish, 

the Captain of Plymouth." 

Thus he delivered his message; the dexterous 

writer of letters. 
Did not embellish the theme, or array it in 

beautiful phrases. 
But came straight to the point, and blurted it 

out like a school-boy ; 
Even the Captain himself could hardly have 

said it more bluntly. 
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla, 

the Puritan maiden. 
Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated 

with wonder. 
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned 

her and rendered her speechless ; 
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the 

ominous silence, 
" If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very 

eager to wed me, 
Why does he not come himself, and take the 

trouble to woo me ? 
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not 

worth the winning. " 

Then John Alden began explaining and 
smoothing the matter — 

Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, per- 
suading, expanding; — 

But, as he warmed and glowed, in his simple 
and eloquent language, 

Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise 
of his rival. 

Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes run- 
ning over with laughter, 

Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you 
speak for yourself, John ?" 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



BTAJ^ZA: THE CHOICE. 

§f S when a lady, walking Flora's bower. 
Picks here a pink, and here a gilly-flow- 
er, 
ISTow plucks a violet from her purple bed. 
And then a primrose, the year's maidenhead, 
There nips the briar, here the lover's pansy. 
Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy. 
This on her arms, and that she lists to wear 



ISG 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



Upon the borders of her curious hair ; 
At length a rose-bud, passing all the rest, 



She plucks, and bosoms in her lily breast. 
Francis Quaeles. 




'With modest eyes downcast 
She comes; she's here; she's past/' 



AT THE CHURCH GATE. 



T||LTHOUGH I enter not, 
^^l Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover ; 
And near the sacred gate 
With longing eyes I wait. 

Expectant of her. 

The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout 

And noise and humming ; 
They've hushed the minster bell ; 
The organ 'gins to swell ; 

She's coming, she's coming! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timid and stepping fast, 
And hastening hither; 
With modest eyes downcast 



She comes ; she's here ; she's past ; 
May heaven go with her ! 

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there. 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute. 
Like outcast spirits who wait, 
And see through heaven's gate 

Angels within it. 

WxLLiAJi Makepeacu Thackeray, 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



187 



TRIUMPH OF CHAEIS. 

fEE the chariot at hand here of Love, 
Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty, 
And enamored do wish so they might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither 
would ride. 



she 



Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth! 
Do but look on her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Than words that soothe her ! 
And from her arched brows, such a grace 

Sheds Itself through the face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good of the elements' 
strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow. 
Before rude hands have touched it ? 
Have you marked but the fall of the snow, 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
Have you felt the wool of the beaver, 

Or swan's down ever? 
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar. 

Or the nard in the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag o' the bee ? 
O so white ! Oh so soft ! O so sweet is she I 

Bex Joxson. 



SOJ{G, 

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fin- 
gers 
Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell ; 
Life's joy for us a moment lingers, 

And death seems in the word farewell. 
The hour' that bids us part and go, 
It sounds not yet — oh ! no, no, no ! 

Time, while I gaze upon thy sweetness, 
Flics like a courser nigh the goal ; 

To-morrow where shall be liis fleetness. 
When thou art parted from my soul ? 

Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, 

But not together— no, no, no ! 

ThOJUS CA.MPBELL. 



GOOD-MOREOW, 

fACK clouds away, and welcome day ; 
With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, larks, aloft, 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing ; nightingale, sing. 
To give my love good-morrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast ; 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow. 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet and cock-sparrow; 
You pretty elves, among yourselves. 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 

Thomas Heywood. 



TO LUC ASIA. 

^"MELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, 

P That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind. 
To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase. 

The first foe in the field, 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you, too, must adore ; 
I could not love thee, dear, so much. 

Loved I not honor more. 

Sir Richard Lovelace. 



CUPID AJYD C AMP ASP E. 

(From "Alexander and Campaspe.") 

fUPID and my Campaspe played 
At cards for kisses ; Cnpid paid. 
He staked his quiver, bow, and arrows, 
His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; 
Loses them too ; then down he throws 
The coral of his lip, the rose 
Growing en's cheek, but none knows how ; 
With these, the crystal of his brow, 
And then the dimple of his chin. 
All these did my Campaspe win. 
At last he set her both his eyes ; 
She won ; and Cupid blind did rise. 
O Love, hath she done thus to thee ? 
What shall, alas ! become of me ? 

John Lyly. 



188 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



SOJfG. 

(From ''Much Ado About Nothing. '-) 



fIGH no more ladies, sigh no more 
Men were deceivers ever ; 
One foot in sea, and one on shore, 
To one thing constant never : 
Then sigh not so, 
But let them go. 
And be you blithe and bonny. 
Converting all j our sounds of woe 
Into, hey nonny, nonny. 




'Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no 
more, 
Men were deceivers ever." 



Sing no more ditties, sing 

no more, 
Of dumps so dull and 

heavy ; 
The fraud of men was ev- 
er so. 
Since summer first was 
leafy : 
Then sigh not so, 
But let them go. 
And be you blithe and bonny. 
Converting all your sounds of 
woe 
Into, hey nonny, nonny. 
William Shakspere. 



TO THE LADY AJ^J^'E HAMILTON. 



fOO late I stayed ; forgive the crime ; 
Unheeded flew the hours ; 
If ow noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only treads on flowers ! 

What eye with clear account remarks 
The ebbing of his glass, 



When all its sands are diamond sparks 
That dazzle as they pass ? 

Ah! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings. 

When birds of Paradise have lent 
Their plumage to his wings ? 

William Kobert Spencer. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



189 



THE PASSIOJfATE SHEPHERD 

TO HIS LOVE. 

/^OME live with me, and be my love, 
V§/ And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That valleys, groves, or hills and fields. 
Woods or steepy mountains yields." 

And we will sit upon the rocks, 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses. 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle. 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; 

A gown make of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fair-lined slippers for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw and ivy-buds. 
With coral clasps and amber studs. 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

Thy silver dishes for thy meat, 
As precious as the gods do eat. 
Shall, on an ivory table, be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning. 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

Christopher Marlo\ve. 



THE J\^YMPHS REPLY. 

r' all the world and love were young. 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

But Time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb, 
And age complains of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue — a heart of gall. 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 



Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs ; 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed. 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 




Sir Walter Raleigh. 



FREEDOM AJ^D LOVE. 

MOW delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's beginning. 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there's no untying ! 

Yet remember, mid your wooing, 
Love has bliss, but love has ruing ; 
Others' smiles may make you fickle, 
Tears for other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 
Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
Longest stays where sorest chidden, 
Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden. 



190 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
Bind its odor to the lily, 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
Then bind love to last forever. 

Love's a fire that needs renewal 
Of fresh beauty for its fuel. 



Love's wing moults when caged and captured; 
Only free, he soars enraptured. 

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
Or the ring-dove's neck from changing? 
No ; nor fettered Love from dying 
In the knot there's no untying. 

Thomas Campbell. 




railE fountains mingle with the river, 
W And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix forever. 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine ? 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

See the mountains kiss high heaven. 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother ; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; 
What are all these kissings worth. 

If thou kiss not me ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



POT^Mft OV AFFECTIOK'. 



191 




Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! 
Even in shadows you are fair." 



SOJVG. 

(From "The False One.") 



T^^ OOK out, bright eyes, and bless the air I 
Ml Even in shadows you are fair. 
Shut-up beauty is like fire, 
That breaks out clearer still and higher. 
Though your beauty be confined. 
And soft love a prisoner bound, 



Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath, found. 
Look out nobly then and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear ! 

Beaumont axd Fletcher. 



192 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



TEE OLD COUPLE, 

T stands in a sunny meadow, 
The house so sunny and brown, 
With its cumbrous old stone chimney 
And the gray roof sloping down ! 



The trees fold their green arms around it, 

The trees a century old ; 
And the winds go chanting through them, 

And the sunbeams drop their gold I 

The cowslips spring in the marshes. 
And the roses bloom on the hill ; 

And beside the brook in the pasture 
The herds go feeding at will. 

The children have gone and left them ; 

They sit in the sun alone ; 
And the old wife's ears are failing. 

As she harks to the well-known tone 

That won her heart in girlhood, 
That has soothed her in many a care. 

And praises her now for the brightness 
Her old face used to wear. 



He folded their hands together. 
He touched their eyelids with balm ; 

And their last breath floated upward, 
Like the close of a solemn psalm. 

Like a bridal pair they traversed 

The unseen mystic road 
That leads to the beautiful city 

" Whose builder and maker is God." 

Anonymous. 



THE EXCHAJVGE. 

Mn^E pledged our hearts, my love and I, 
\ili/ I in my arms the maiden clasping; 
I could not tell the reason why. 
But oh! I trembled like an aspen. 

Her father's love she bade me gain ; 

I went, and shook like any reed ! 
I strove to act the man ; in vain ! 

We had exchanged our hearts indeed. 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



She thinks again of her bridal — 
How, dressed in her robe of white. 

She stood by her gay young lover 
In the morning's rosy light. 

Oh ! the morning is rosy as ever, 
But the rose from her cheek has fled ; 

And the sunshine still is golden, 
But it falls on a silvered head. 

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, 
Come back in her winter time. 

Till her feeble pulses tremble 
With the thrill of springtime prime. 

And looking forth from the window. 
She thinks how the trees have grown. 

Since clad in her bridal whiteness. 
She crossed the old doorstone. 

Though dimmed her eye's bright azure 
And dimmed her hair's young gold, 

The love in her girlhood plighted 
Has never grown dim or old. 

They sat in their place in the sunshine 
Till the day was almost done ; 

And then at its close, an angel 
Stole over the threshold stone. 



THE LAJfD O' THE LEAL. 

'M wearing aw a', John, 

Like snaw when it's thaw, John, 
I'm wearing awa' 

To the Land o' the Leal. 
There's nae sorrow there, John, 
There's neither cauld nor care, John, 
The day is aye fair 

In the Land o' the Leal. 



Ye wer aye leal and true, John, 
Your task's ended noo, John, 
And I'll welcome you 

To the Land o' the Leal. 
Our bonnie bairn's there, John, 
She was baith guid and fair, John ; 
Oh, we grudged her right sair 

To the Land o' the Leal ! 

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, John, 
My soul langs to be free, John, 
And angels wait on me 

To the Land o' the Leal. 
iTsTow fair ye weel, my ain John, 
This warld's care is vain, John ; 
We'll meet and aye be fain 

In the Land o' the Leal. 

Lady Nairn. 



i 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



193 




"And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, 
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale." 



(From " Rokebj- 

tLLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning^ 
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. 
Come, read me my riddle ; come, hearken my 

tale : 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, 
And he views his domains upon Arkindale 

side. 
The mere for his net and the land for his 

game. 
The chase for the wild, and the park for the 

tame ; 
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the 

vale. 
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale. 



DALE. 

Canto III.) 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. 

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be 
as bright ; 

Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 

Yet twenty bold yeomen will draw at his 
word ; 

And the best of our nobles his bonnet will 
vail. 

Who at Rerecross on Stanmore meets Allen-a- 
Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 

The mother, she asked of his household and 

home; 
" Though the castle of Richmond stand fair 

on the hill. 
My hall," quoth bold Allen, " shows gallanter 

still ; 



194 



POEMS OF AFFECTIOIT. 



'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent 

so pale, 
And all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was 
stone ; 

They lifted the latch, and they bade him be 
gone; 

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their 
cry; 

He had laughed on the lass with his bonny 
black eye. 

And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, 

And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- 
Dale. 

Sm Walter Scott. 



GEJ^EVIEVE. 

T^ AID of my love, sweet Genevieve ! 
j/®l In beauty's light you glide along ; 
Your eye is like the star of eve. 

And sweet your voice as seraph's song ; 
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 

This heart with passion soft to glow ; 
Within your soul a voice there lives ; 

It bids you hear the tale of woe. 
When, sinking low, the sufferer wan 

Beholds no hand outstretched to save. 
Fair as the bosom of the swan 

That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
I've seen your breast with pity heave, 
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve. 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



"FAREWELL! BUT WHE^^EVER 
YOU WELCOME TEE HOUR." 

f^AREWELL! but whenever you welcome 
the hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 
bower. 



Then think of the friend who once welcomed 

it too. 
And forgot his own grief to be happy with 

you. 
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened the pathway 

of pain. 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that 

threw 
Its enchantment around him, while lingering 

with you. 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills 

up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each 

cup, 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright. 
My soul, happy friends, shaU be with you that 

night ; 
Shall join in your revels, your sports and 

your wiles. 
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your 

smiles ; 
Too blest, if it tell me, that mid the gay cheer 
Some kind voice had murmured, " I wish he 

were here I" 

Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy. 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot 

destroy ; 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and 

care. 
And bring back the features that joy used to 

wear ; 
Long, long be mv heart with such memories 

filled ! 
Like the vase, in which roses have once been 

distilled. 
You may break, you may shatter the vase if 

you will. 
But the scent of the roses will cling round it 

still. 

Thomas Moore. 



^ 



MORALTTY IJf ART. 
ORAL beauty is the basis of aU true beauty. This foundation is somewhat veiled and 
covered in nature. Art brings it out, and gives it more transparent forms. It is 
here that art, when it knows well its power and resources, engages in a struggle 
with nature in which it may have the advantage. 

Victor Cousin. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



195 




" Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,, 
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds.' 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 



* * J^HEY made her a grave too cold and 
^ damp 

For a sonl so warm and true ; 
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal 

Swamp, 
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp. 
She paddles her white canoe. 

" And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see. 

And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
Long and loving our life shall be, 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree. 
When the footstep of Death is near." 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds ; 

His path was rugged and sore. 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before. 

And, when on earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew. 



And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 

And the coppersnake breathed in his ear. 
Till he starting, cried, from his dream awake, 
" Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake. 
And the white canoe of my dear ?" 

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface played ; 
" Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light!" 
And the dim shore echoed for many a night 

The name of the death-cold maid. 

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark 
Which carried him ofl" from the shore ; 

Far, far he followed the meteor spark ; 

The winds were high, and the clouds were 
dark, 
And the boat returned no more. 

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp. 

And paddle their white canoe. 

Thoaias Moore. 



196 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



PROPOSAL, 



fHE violet loves a sunny bank, 
The cowslip loves the lea, 
The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
And I love thee. 

The sunshine kisses mount and vale, 
The stars they kiss the sea, 



The west winds kiss the clover blooms. 
But I kiss thee. 

The oriole weds his mottled mate. 

The lily's bride o' the bee. 
Heaven's marriage ring is round the earth. 

Shall I wed thee ? 

Bayard Taylor. 




She leant against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight." 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



197 



LOVE. 

tLL thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour. 

When midway on the mount I lay. 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene. 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 

And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve. 

She leant against the armed man. 
The statue of the armed knight; 

She stood and listened to my lay. 
Amid the lingering light 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve : 

She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story, 

An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 

For well she knows I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand. 

And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her bow he pined ; and ah ! 

The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love 

Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 

And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 

Nor rested day nor night ; 



That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 

And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 

And that he knew it was a fiend. 
This miserable Knight : 

And that, unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 

And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; 

And how she wept and clasped his knees, 
And how she tended him in vain. 

And ever strove to expiate 
The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave, 
And how his madness went away, 

When on the yellow forest-leaves, 
A dying man, he lay. 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 

My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity. 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 

The music and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve. 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 

An undistinguishable throng. 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 

Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with pity and delight, 

She blushed with love and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream 

I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved ; she stepped aside ; 

As conscious of my look, she stepped ; 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 

She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 

And bending back her head, looked up 
And gazed upon my face. 



198 



POEMS OF AFFECTIOI!^. 



'Twas partly Love and partly Fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 

That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride, 

And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous bride. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 




Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



A PETITIOJf TO TIME. 
[OUCH us gently, Time ! 
Let us glide adown the stream 
Gently, as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream ! 
Humble voyagers are we, 
Husband, wife, and children three ; 
(One is lost— an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead I) 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We've not proud nor soaring wings ; 
Our ambition, our content, 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime ; 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 

Bryan W. Procter. 
(Barry Cornwall. ) 



THE POETS SOJVG TO HIS WIFE. 
"^OW many summers, love, 
^ Have 1 been thine ? 
How many days, love, 

Hast thou been mine ? 
Time, like the winged wind 

When 't bends the flowers, 
Hath left no mark behind. 

To count the hours ! 

Some weight of thought, though loth, 

On thee he leaves ; 
Some lines of care round both 

Perhaps he weaves ; 
Some fears ; a soft regret 

For joys scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget ; 

All else is flown ! 



Ah ! with what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing ! 
Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden spring ! 
With tongues all sweet and low. 

Like a pleasant rhyme. 
They tell how much I owe 

To thee and Time ! 

Bryan W. Procter. 

(Barry Cornwall.) 



SO.YJVET. 

(It is said that soon after the death of Longfellow, in 
1882, the following tribute to his wife, which was written 
in July, 1879, was found in his portfolio. The lines were 
not, we believe, made public until very recently.) 

N the long, sleepless watches of the night, 
A gentle face — the face of one long dead- 
Looks at me from the wall, where round its 

head 
The night lamp casts a halo of pale light. 
Here in this room she died, and soul more 

white 
Never through martyrdom of fire was led 
To its repose ; nor can in books be read 
The legend of a life more benedight. 
There is a mountain in the distant west 
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines 
Displays a cross of snow upon its side. 
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast 
These eighteen years, through all the chang- 
ing scenes 
And seasons, changeless since the day she 
died. 

Henry Wapswobth Longfellow. 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



199 




"I saw two clouds at morning 
Tinged by the rising sun.' 



EPITHALJ.MIUM. 



I SAW two clouds at morning 
1 Tinged by the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one ; 
I thought that morning cloud was blessed, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
And join their cpurse, with silent force, 



In peace each other greeting ; 
Calm was their course through banks of green, 
While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion. 

Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, 

Float on, in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storms shaU cease, 
A purer sky, where all is peace. 

John G. C, Br4Jnard, 



! 




I 



" Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson, my jo." 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



201 



JOBJ^ AJ\'DEBSOJf. 

jTOmq- ANDERS0:N', my jo John, 
QJ When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonny brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



John Anderson, my jo John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither ; 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

Robert Burns. 




•' There's naething binds my puir auld heart 
To earth, gude-wife, but thee." 



THE 

1 FEEL I'm growing auld, gude-wife, 

r I feel I'm growing auld ; 

My steps are frail, my een are bleared. 

My pow is unco bauld. 
I've seen the snaws o' fourscore years 

O'er hill and meadow fa'. 
And, hinnie, were it no for you, 

I'd gladly slip awa'. 
13 



GUDE-WIFE. 

I feel I'm growing auld, gude-wife, 

I feel I'm growing auld ; 
From youth to age I've keepit warm 

The luve that ne'er turned cauld. 
I cannabear the dreary thocht 

That we maun sindered be ; 
There's naething binds my puir auld heart 

To earth, gude-wife, but thee. 

James Linen. 



202 



POEMS OF AFFECTION. 



'J^OT OURS THE VOWS.' 



MOT ours the vows of such as plight 
Their troth in sunny weather, 
While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 
To walk on flowers together. 

But we have loved as those who tread 

The thorny path of sorrow. 
With clouds above, and cause to dread 

Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 



And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, 
Each to the other dearer. 

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
With mirth and joy may perish ; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 

It looks beyond the clouds of time, 
And through death's shadowy portal ; 

Made by adversity sublime. 
By faith and hope immortal. 

Bernard Barton, 





But peacc-ful was tlie iii-ht wheroiii tlie rrince of Light 
ilis reign of pence upon the earth began." 




pOEM^ Of I^ELIQIOjsl 



EYMM OK THE MORXIJ^Q OF CHRIST'S J^ATIVITY. 



IT was the winter wild, 
While the Heaven-born child 
All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies. 
Nature, in awe to him. 
Hath doffed her gaudy trim, 
With her great master so to sympathize ; 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her lusty para- 
mour. 

Only with speeches fair, 
She wooes the gentle air 
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, 
And on her naked shame. 
Pollute with sinful blame, 
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; 
Confounded that her Maker's eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformi- 
ties. 

But He, her fears to cease. 
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; 
She, crowned with olive green, came softly 
sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 
His ready harbinger. 
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing. 
And, waving wide her myrtle wand. 
She strikes a universal peace thi'ough sea 
and land. 

No war or battle's sound 
Was heard the world around. 
The idle spear and shield were high up hung ; 
The hooked chariot stoo^ 



Unstained with hostile blood ; 
The trumpet spake not to the armed throng 
And kings sat still with awful eye. 
As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord 
was by. 

But peaceful was the night 
Wherein the Prince of Light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began ; 
The winds, with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kissed, 
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the 
charmed wave. 

The stars, with deep amaze. 
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. 
Bending one way their precious influence. 
And will not take their flight 
For all the morning light, 
Or Lucifer, that often warned them thence ; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid 
them go. 

And though the shady gloom 
Hath given day her room, 
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
And hid his head for shame 
As his inferior flame 
The new enlightened world no more should 
need ; 
Ho saw a greater Sun appear 



206 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Than his bright throne, or burning axletree 
could bear. 



The shepherds on the lawn, 
Or ere the point of dawn, 
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 



When such music sweet 

Their hearts and ears did greet. 

As never was by mortal finger strook ; 
Divinely warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise. 

As all their souls in blissful rapture took ; 




*' When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did gcreet.' 



Full little thought they then 
That the mighty Pan 
Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
Perhaps their loves or else their sheep. 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 
keep. 



The air, such pleasures loath to lose, 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each 
heavenly close. 

Nature, that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 



i 



POEMS OF iieligio:n". 



207 



Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was done. 
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier 
union. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light. 
That with long beams the shame-faced night 
arrayed. 
The helmed Cherubim 
And sworded Seraphim 
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings dis- 
played, 
Harping in loud and solemn choir, 
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new- 
born Heir. 

Such music, as 'tis said, 
Kever before was made, 
But when of old the sons of morning sung. 
While the Creator great 
His constellation set, 
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the weltering waves their oozy 
channel keep. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres. 
Once bless our human ears, 
If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time ; 
And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow 
And with your nine-fold harmony 
Make up full concert to the angelic sym- 
phony. 

For if such holy song 
Enwrap our fancy long. 
Time will run back and fetch the age of gold ; 
And speckled Vanity 
Will sicken and soon die. 
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mold, 
And hell itself will pass av/ay, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the 
peering day. 

Yea, Truth and Justice then 
Will down return to men 
Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wear- 
ing, 



Mercy will sit between. 
Throned in celestial sheen, 
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down 
steering. 
And Heaven, as at some festival. 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace 
haU. 

But wisest fate says Ko, 
This must not yet be so ; 
The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss, 
So both himself and us to glorify ; 
Yet first, to those enchained in sleep, 
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder 
through the deep. 

With such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang, 
While the red fire and smoldering clouds out- 
break. 
The aged earth aghast 
With terror of that blast. 
Shall from the surface to the center shake. 
When at the world's last session, 
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall 
spread his throne. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is. 
But now begins ; for from this happy day 
The old dragon under ground 
In straighter limits bound, 
ISTot half so forecasts his usurped sway. 
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb ; 
No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the arched roof in words de- 
ceiving ; 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine. 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leav- 
ing; 
No nightly trance or breathed spell 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro- 
phetic cell. 

The lonely mountains o'er. 
And the resounding shore 
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 
From haunted spring aud dale. 
Edged with poplar pale, 



208 



POEMS OF BELIGION. 



The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn, 
The Nymphs, in twilight shade of tangled 
thickets, mourn. 

In consecrated earth. 
And on the holy hearth, 
The Lars and Lemures moan with mid-night 
plaint ; 
In urns and altars round, 
A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar Power foregoes his 
wonted seat. 



Heaven's queen and mother both, 
Now sits not girt with taper's holy shrine ; 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded 
^ Thammur mourn. 



And sullen Moloch fled 
Hath left in shadows dread 
His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 
In vain, with cymbals' ring, 
They call the grisly king 
In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis and Orus, and the dog Aaubus, haste. 






.^c^ilai'l^^^^^ 



mM 



But see, the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest." 



Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice battered god of Palestine ; 
And mooned Ashtaroth, 



Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove or green. 
Trampling the unshowered grass with low- 
ings loud ; 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



209 



Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest ; 
Naught hut profoundest Hell can be his 
shroud ; 
In vain with timbreled anthem dark, 
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his wor- 
shipped ark. 

He feels from Judah's land 
The dreaded Infant's hand 
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne ; 
Nor all the gods beside 
Longer dare abide, 
Nor Typhon, huge, ending in snaky twine; 
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, 
Can in his swaddling bands control the 
damned crew. 

So when the sun in bed, 
Curtained with cloudy red, 
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, . 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail. 
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave ; 
And the yellow-skirted fays 
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their 
moon-loved maze. 

But see, the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest ; 
Time is, our tedious song should here have 
ending; 
Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
Hath fixed her polished car. 
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp at- 
tending ; 
And all about the courtly stable. 
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order service- 
able. 

John Milton. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMm 

IT was the calm and silent night; 
•1 Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Home been growing up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars ; 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain ; 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars, 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 



'Twas in the calm and silent night, 

The senator of haughty Rome, 
Impatient, urged his chariot's flight. 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked the Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away. 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago ? 

Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor ; 
A streak of light before him lay, ^ 

Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 
Across his path. He passed, for naught 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought, 

The air, how calm and cold and thin, 
In the solenm midnight 
Centuries ago. 

O strange indifference ! low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares; 
The earth was still, but knew not why, 

The world was listening unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world forever : 
To that still moment none would heed 

Man's doom was linked no more to sever. 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 

It is the calm and silent night ! 

A thousand bells ring out and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness, charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born. 
The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven. 
In the solemn mid-night, 
Centuries ago. 

Alfred Domett. 



COME, YE DISCOJ^SOLATE. 

/|^OME, ye disconsolate, where'er you lan- 
V^ guish, 

Come, at God's altar, fervently kneel ; 
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell 
your anguish. 
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot 
heall 




c^AAi^t^^ 



POEMS OF RELIGION^. 



211 



Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, 
Hope when all others die, fadeless and pure. 

Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name 
saying, 
" Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot 



Go, ask the infidel what boon he brings us, 

What charm for aching hearts he can reveal 
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings 
us: 
"Earth has no sorrows that God cannot 
heal!" 

Thomas Moore. 



THE MYSTIC'S CHRISTMAS, 
LL hail!" the bells of Christmas rang, 
All hail!" the monks at Christmas 
sang; 
The merry monks who kept with cheer 
The gladdest day of all their year. 

But still apart, unmoved thereat, 
A pious elder brother sat 
Silent, in his accustomed place, 
With God's sweet peace upon his face. 

" Why sitt'st thou thus ?" his brethren cried. 
" It is the blessed Christmas-tide ; 
The Christmas lights are all aglow, 
The sacred lilies bud and blow. 

" Above our heads the joy-bells ring. 
Without the happy children sing. 
And all God's creatures hail the morn 
On which the holy Christ was born ! 

" Rejoice with us ; no more rebuke 
Our gladness with thy quiet look." 
The gray monk answered ; "Keep, I pray, 
Even as ye list, the Lord's birthday. 

Let heathen Yule fires flicker red 
Where thronged refectory feasts are spread ; 
With mystery-play and masque and mime 
And wait-song speed the holy time 1 

" The blindest faith may haply save ; 
The Lord accepts the things we have ; 
And reverence howso'er it strays, 
May find at last the shining ways. 

" They needs must grope who cannot see, 

The blade before the ear must be ; 

As ye are feeling I have felt. 

And where ye dwelt I too have dwelt. 



" But now, beyond the things of sense, 
Beyond occasions and events, 
I know, through God's exceeding grace. 
Release from form and time and place. 

" I listen, from no mortal tongue. 
To hear the song the angels sung ; 
And wait within myself to know 
The Christmas lilies bud and blow. 

" The outward symbols disappear 
From him whose inward sight is clear; 
And small must be the choice of days 
To him who fills them all with praise ! 

"Keep while you need it, brothers mine, 
With honest zeal your Christmas sign. 
But judge not him who, every morn, 
Feels in his heart the Lord Christ born!" 
John Greenleaf Whittier. 



I WOULD J^OT LIVE ALWAYr 

(Job VII., 16.) 

WOULD not live alway ; I ask not to stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er 

the way ; 
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around. 
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is 

found ; 
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow 

in the air. 
Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of 

despair ; 
And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad 

ray, 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears 

him away. 



I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin, 
Temptation without, and corruption within ; 
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, 
Scarce the victory's mine ere I'm captive 

again. 
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with 

fears, 
And my cup of thanksgiving with penitent 

tears. 
The festival trumf) caUs for jubilant songs, 
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

I would not live alway ; no, welcome the 

tomb ; 
Immortality's lamp burns there bright mid the 

gloom ; 
There too is the pillow where Christ bowed 

his head : 



212 



POEMS OF RELIGIOK. 



Oh, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed ! 
And then the glad morn soon to follow that 

night, 
When the sunrise of glory shall beam on my 

sight, 
When the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise 
To shout in the morning, shall peal through 

the skies! 

Who,who would live alway, away from his God, 
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the 

bright plains, 
And the noon-tide of glory eternally reigns ; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet. 
Their Savior and brethren transported to 

greet; 



While the anthems of rapture unceasingly 

roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the 

soul? 

That heavenly music ! what is it I hear ? 
The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my 

ear; 
And see, soft unfolding, those portals of gold; 
The King, all arrayed in his beauty, behold ! 
Oh give me, oh give me the wings of a dove ! 
Let me hasten my flght to those mansions 

above ; 
Ay, 'tis now that my soul on swift pinions 

would soar. 
And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. 
WiLLiAAi Augustus Muhlenberg. 




"From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood 
The merle and mavis are peeping." 

CHRISTMAS IJ{ THE WOODS. 

rOM under the boughs in the snow-clad The merle an,4 mavis are peeping, 
wood Alike secure froA the wind and the flood, 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



213 



Yet a silent Christmas keeping. 

Still happy are they, 

And their looks are gay, 
And they frisk it from bough to bough, 

Since berries bright red 

Hang over their head, 
A right goodly feast, I trow. 

There under the boughs in their wintry dress, 

Haps many a tender greeting ; 
Blithe hearts have met, and the soft caress 
Hath told the delight of meeting. 
Though winter hath come 
To his woodland home. 
There is mirth with old Christmas cheer, 
For 'neath the light snow 



c/yijt LOC^^*^-'*^^ 



^yz 




Is the fruit-fraught bough. 
And each to his love is near. . 

Yes! under the boughs, scarce seen, nestle 
they, 
Those children of song together, — 
As blissful by night, as joyous by day, 
'Mid the snows and the wintry weather. 
For they dream of spring, 
And the songs they'll sing, 
When the flowers bloom again in the mead; 
And mindful are they 
Of those blossoms gay, 
Which have brought them to-day 
Such help in their time of need ! 

Harrison Weir. 



C/>-l <L^ 



^^^^t 










fiPA^i^ fllCL^ 



THE BIBLE. 
'HE Bible is the treasure of the poor, the solace of the rich, and the support of the 
dying ; and while other books may amuse and instruct us in a leisure hour, it is the 
peculiar triumph of the Bible to create light in the midst of darkness, to alleTiate the 
sorrow which admits of no other alleviation, to direct a beam of hope to the heart which 
no other topic of consolation can reach ; while guilt, despair, and death vanish at the touch 
of its holy inspiration. Eobeet Hall. 



214 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



GOBS-ACRE. 

J LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which 
i calls 

The burial ground God's-Acre 1 It is just ; 
It consecrates each grave within its walls, 

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping 
dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 

Comfort to those, who in the grave have 

sown 

The seed that they had garnered in their 

hearts, 

Their bread of life, alas I no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast. 

In the sure faith that we shall rise again 
At the great harvest, when the archangel's 
blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and 
grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom. 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 
With that of flowers, which never bloomed 
on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare. Death, turn up 
the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 
This is the field and Acre of our God, 
This is the place where human harvests 
grow! 

Henry Wadsworth Loxgfellow. 



BEDEMPTIOJ^. 

(From "The Hind and the Panther.") 

§0 when of old the almighty Father sate 
In council, to redeem our ruined state, 
Millions of millions, at a distance round. 
Silent, the sacred consistory crowned, 
To hear what mercy, mixed with justice, could 

propound, 
All prompt, with eager pity, to fulfil 
The full extent of their Creator's will. 
But when the stern conditions were declared, 
A mournful whisper through the host was 

heard. 
And the whole hierarchy, with heads bent 

down. 
Submissively declined the ponderous proffered 

crown. 
Then, not till then, the eternal Son from high 



Rose in the strength of all the Deity ; 

Stood forth to accept the terms, and under- 
went 

A weight which all the frame of heaven had 
bent. 

Nor he himself could bear, but as Omnipotent. 

John Dryden. 




John Dkyden. 



ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME. 

'J5)0CK of Ages, cleft for me, 
!^^ Let me hide myself in thee! 
Let the water and the blood 
From thy riven side which flowed, 
Be of sin the double cure, 
Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labor of my hands 
Can fulfill thy law's demands ; 
Could my zeal no respite know, 
Could my tears forever flow, 
All for sin could not atone ; 
Thou must save, and thou alone. 

Nothing in my hand I bring ; 
Simply to thy cross I cling ; 
Naked, come to thee for dress ; 
Helpless, look to thee for grace ; 
Foul, I to the Fountain fly; 
Wash me, Saviour, or I die I 

While I draw this fleeting breath. 
When my eye-strings break in death, 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



21J 



When I soar through tracts unknown, 
See thee on thy judgment throne, 
Eock of Ages, cleft for me. 
Let me hide myself in thee ! 

Augustus Montague Toplady. 



THE WIMGED WORSHIPERS. 

/J^AY, guiltless pair, 

^@(, What seek ye from the fields of heaven? 

Ye have no need of prayer, 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here, 
Where mortals to their Maker bend ? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend ? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep ; 

Penance is not for you. 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you 'tis given 
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays. 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing 
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands. 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 

Or, if ye stay 
To note the consecrated hour, 

Teach me the airy way, 
And let me try your envied power. 



Above the crowd, 
On upward wings could I but fly. 

To bathe in yon bright cloud, 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'Twere heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar. 

On nature's charms to feed. 
And nature's own great God adore. 

Chaeles Sprague. 




Eeginald Heber. 






THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
Vj 'HE admiration of former times is a feeling at first, perhaps, engrafted on our minds 
by the regret of those who vainly seek in the evening of life for the sunny tints 
which adorned their morning landscape ; and who are led to fancy a deterioration in 
*!* surrounding objects, when the change is in themselves, and the twilight in their own 
powers of perception. It is probable that as the age of the individual or of the species is sub- 
ject to its peculiar dangers, so each has its compensating advantages ; and that the difficulties 
which, at different periods of time, have impeded the believer's progress to heaven, though 
inappearanceequallyvarious, are, in amount, very nearly equal. * * ^ Had we lived in the 
times of the infant Church, even amid the blaze of miracle on one hand, and the chastening fire 
of persecution on the other, w^e should have heard, perhaps, no fewer complaints of the cow- 
ardice and apostasy, the dissimulation and murmuring inseparable from a continuance of public 
distress and danger, than we now hear regrets for those days of wholesome affliction, when 
the mutual love of believers was strengthened by the common danger; when their want of 
w^orldly advantages disposed them to regard a release from the world with far more hope than 
apprehension, and compelled the Church to cling to her Master's cross alone for comfort and 

succor. 

Reginald Heber. 



216 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY J^IGHT 

(Inscribed to Robert Aikin, Esq., of Ayr.) 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor." 

Gray. 



/iJfNY loved, my honored, much respected 
Wl friend. 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and 
praise. 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 

The nati ve feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
What Aikin in a cottage would have been ; 



The blackening trains of craws to their re- 
pose ; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, — 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, — 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes. 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And, weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
homeward wend. 




" The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end." 



Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier 
there 1 ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
The shortening winter day is near a close ; 
Tbe miry l^^ftSt^ jr^tr^^ting frae tbepleugh \ 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher 
through. 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise m^ 
glee, 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



217 



His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 

His clane hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 

smile, rin 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, A cannie errand to a neebor town ; 




'Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher through, 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee^" 



Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
An' maks him quite forget his labor an' his 
toil. 

Belyye the eld^y bairns eam^ drappingia, 



Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 

grown, 
In youthful bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show ^ br^W flew 

gown, 



218 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Or deposite her sair-worn penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship 
be. 

WV joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for others' welfare kindly spiers ; 
The social hours, swift- winged, unnoticed 
fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 
Anticipation forward points the view. 

The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, 
Garsauld claes look amaist as weel's the new; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command. 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk an' 
play. 

" An' oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway. 
And mind your duty duly, morn and night : 

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore his counsel an' assisting might ; 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright." 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 

The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, an' flush her cbeek ; 

Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild 
worthless rake. 



O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round. 

And sair experience bids me this declare : 

" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas- 
ure spare 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
evening gale !" 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth. 
That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 

Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
Then pants the ruined maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild! 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's 
food ; 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 

cood. 
The dame brings forth in complimental 
mood. 
To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck 
fell; 
An' aft he's pressed, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' 
the bell. 



Wi, kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappan youth; he takes the mother's 
eye; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta' en ; 
The father cracks o' horses, ploughs, and 

kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 
joy, 
But, blate and laithful, scarce can weel be- 
have; 
The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
AYhat makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 

grave ; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected 
like the lave. 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turn's o'er, wi patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride ; 

His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide. 
He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And, "Let us worship God," he says, with 
solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim; 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



219 



Perhaps " Dundee's " wild, warbling measures Compared with these, Italian thrills are 

rise, tame ; 

Or plaintive "Martyr's" worthy of the The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; 

name ; Nae unison hae they wi' our Creator's praise. 




" The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 



Or noble "Elgin" beats the heavenward The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

flame, How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
U 



220 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or liow the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 



How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; 




" The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay." 



Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 



How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 



POEMS OF RELIGIOIT. 



221 



And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced 
by Heaven's command. 

Then, kneeling down, to Heaven's eternal 
King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays ; 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear. 
While circling time moves round in an eter- 
nal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's 
pride. 
In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 
Devotion's every grace, except the heart! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will de- 
sert. 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 

But, haply, in some cottage far apart. 
May hear, weU pleased, the language of the 

soul, 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request. 

That He, who stills the raven's clamorous 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 

Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 
For them, and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts, with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 

springs. 

That makes her loved at home, revered 

abroad ; 

Princes and lords are but the work of kings ; 

" An honest man's the noblest work of 

God;" 
And, certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous 
load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined. 

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 



For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent, 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blessed with health, and peace, and 
sweet content ! 
And oh, may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! 

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much 
loved isle ! 

O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide 
That streamed through Wallace's undaunt- 
ed heart. 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the glorious second part, 
The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward ! 

O never, never Scotia's realm desert ! 
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard I 

BoBERT Burns. 



HYMJf: ''ABIDE WITE ME." 

tBIDE with me ! fast falls the even-tide. 
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me 
abide ! 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee. 
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me ! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
Earth's joys grow dim ; its glories pass away; 
Change and decay in all around I see ; 
O thou who changest not, abide with me ! 

Kot a brief glance I beg, a passing word ; 
But as thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord, 
Familiar, condescending, patient, free. 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me ! 

Come not in terrors as the King of kings, 
But kind and good, with healing in thy wings, 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ; 
Come, Friend of sinners, thus abide with me ! 

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile. 
And, though rebellious and perverse mean- 
while. 
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee. 
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me ! 



222 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



I need thy presence every passing hour ; 
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's 

power? 
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be ? 
Through cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with 

me! 

I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless ; 
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness ; 
Where is Death's sting ? where. Grave, thy 

victory ? 
I triumph still, if thou abide with me ! 

Hold, then, thy cross before my closing eyes. 



Away on the mountains wild and bare, 
Away from the tender Shepherd's care. 

" Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine. 

Are they not enough for thee ?" 
But the Shepherd made answer : " This of 
mine 

Has wandered away from me ; 
And although the road be rough and steep, 
I go to the desert to find my sheep." 

But none of the ransomed ever knew 
How deep were the waters crossed. 




Shine through the gloom, and point me to 

the skies ; 
Heaven's morning breaks, and Earth's vain 

shadows flee. 
In Life and death, O Lord, abide with me! 
Hexry Fkancis Lyte. 



'But none of the ransomed ever knew 

How dark was the night the Lord passed through." 

Nor how dark was the night that the Lord 
passed through, 
Ere he found the sheep that was lost ; 
Out in the desert he heard its cry, 
Sick, and helpless, and ready to die. 

" Lord, whence are these blood-drops all the 
way. 
That mark out the mountain's track ?" 
" They were shed for one who had gone as- 
tray. 
Ere the Shepherd could bring him back." 
Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and 
torn ?" 



THE JYLYETY AKB J^lJfE. 

fHERE were ninety and nine that safely 
lay 
In the shelter of the fold ; 
But one was out on the hills away. 
Far off from the ^ates of gold, 



"They are pierced to-night by many a 
thorn." 

But all through the mountains, thunder-riv- 
en. 
And up from the rocky steep, 
There rose a cry to the gates of Heaven ; 

" Rejoice ! I have found my sheep !" 
And the angels echoed around the throne : 
"Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his 
awn !^' 

Elizabeth C. Clephane. 



I 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



223 



ITSAIJfDBAP 0' DEW^ 

/^NONFIDE ye aye in Providence, 
^© For Providence is kind, 
An' bear ye a' life's changes 

Wi' a calm an' tranquil mind ; 
Though pressed and hemmed on every side, 

Ha'e faith, an' ye'll v^in through. 
For ilka blade o' grass 

Keps its ain drap o' dew. 

Gin reft frae frinds, or crossed in love. 

As whiles nae doubt ye've been, 
Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart. 

Or tears flow frae your een, 
Believe it for the best, and trow 

There's good in store for you, 
For ilka blade o' grass 

Keps its ain drap o' dew. 

In lang, lang days of simmer. 

When the clear and cloudless sky 
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain 

To nature, parched and dry, 
The genial night, wi' balmy breath, 

Gars verdure spring anew. 
An' ilka blade o' grass 

Keps its ain drap o' dew. 

Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine 

We should feel ower proud an' hie. 
An' in our pride forget to wipe 

The tear frae poortith's e'e, 
Some wee dark clouds of sorrow come. 

We ken na whence or hoo. 
But ilka blade o' grass 

Keps it ain drap o' dew. 

James Ballantine. 



JfEAREB, MY GOD, TO THEE. 

MEARER, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee I 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me ; 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee 1 

Though like the wanderer, 

The sun gone down. 
Darkness be over me, 

My rest a stone ; 
Yet in my dreams I'd be 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

There let the way appear 
Steps unto Heaven, 



All that thou sendest me 

In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee I 

Then with my waking thoughts 

Bright with thy praise, 
Out of my stony griefs, 

Bethel I'll raise ; 
So by my woes to be 
Nearer, my God, to thee ! 

Nearer to thee ! 

Or if, on joyful wing, 

Cleaving the sky. 
Sun, moon and stars forgot, 

Upward I fly, 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee. 

Nearer to thee ! 

Sarah Flo^v^r Adams. 

SOJVJVET OJy HIS ELIJVDJVESS. 

WHEN I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and 
wide. 
And that one talent, which is death to hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more 

bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He, returning, chide ; 
" Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" 
I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies : " God doth not 
need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who 
best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; 
his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait," 
John Milton. 



LIJVES. 

(Written In his Bible, the evening before his execution.) 

W 'EN such is time, that takes on trust 
r@f Our joys, our youth, our all we have. 
And pays us but with earth and dust ; 

Who in the dark and silent grave. 
When we have wandered all our ways. 
Shuts up the story of our days. 
But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 
My God shall raise me up, I trust. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 




% 



^/<^^^^^ 



„J 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



^5 



ADDRESS TO THE VXCO GUID, 

OB THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

^ Y son, these maxims make a rule,- 
And lump them aye thegither : 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither ; 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles of caflf in ; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
For random fits o' daffln." 

O ye who are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've naught to do but mark and tell 

Your neebors' fauts and folly ; 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill. 

Supplied wi' store o' water. 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes. 

Would here propone defenses. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes. 

Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the niffer. 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What makes the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in. 
And, what's aft more than a' the lave. 

Your better art o' hidin'. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What raging must his veins convulse 

That still eternal gallop ; 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way; 
But in the teeth of baith to sail. 

It makes an unco lee-way. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmugrified, they've grown 

Debauchery and drinking ; 
Oh, would they stay to calculate 

The eternal consequences, 



Or your more dreaded hell to state, 
Damnation of expenses! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor Frailty names. 

Suppose a change of cases ; 
A dear loved lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination ; 
But, let me whisper in your lug, 

Ye've, aiblins, no temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother Man, 

Still gentlier sister Woman ; 
Though they may gang a kennie wrang, 

To step aside is human ; 
One point must still be greatly dark: 

The moving Why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us ; 
He knows each chord, its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias ; 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 

RoBEET Burns. 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 

§Y Nebo's lonely mountain. 
On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave ; 
But no man dug that sepulchre, 

And no man saw it e'er, 
For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth ; 
But no man heard the trampling. 

Or saw the train go forth. 
Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes when the night is done. 
Or the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Fades in the setting sim, 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 
Her crown of verdure weaves, 

And all the trees on all the hills 
Open their thousand leaves; 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



So, without sound of music, 

Or voice of them that wept. 
Silently down from the mountain's crown 

That grand procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gray Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his rocky eyrie. 

Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
Perchance some lion, stalking. 

Still shuns the hallowed spot, 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

But when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades in the war, 
With arms reversed and muffled drums. 

Follow the funeral car ; 
They show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterless steed, 

While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land, 

They lay the sage to rest, 
And give the bard an honored place, 

With costly marble dressed. 
In the great minster transept, 

Where lights like glories fall. 
While the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings 

Along the emblazoned wall. 

This was the bravest warrior 
That ever buckled sword ; 



This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden pen, 
On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor ? 

The hillside for his pall. 
To lie in state while angels wait. 

With stars for tapers tall ; 
The dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes. 

Over his bier to wave. 
And God's own hand, in that lonely land. 

To lay him in his grave ? 

In that deep grave without a name. 

Whence his uncoffined clay 
Sha 1 break again — most wondrous thought !- 

Before the judgment day. 
And stand, with glory wrapped around. 

On the hills he never trod. 
And speak of the strife that won our life 

Through Christ the Incarnate God. 

O lonely tomb in Moab's land ! 

O dark Beth-peor's hill I 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 

And teach them to be still! 
God hath His mysteries of grace. 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep, like secret sleep 

Of him He loved so well. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 



iIj 



SELF-KJVO WLEDGE. 

(From "The Imitation of Christ.") 

HO hath a harder conflict to endure than he who labors to subdue himself? But in 
this we must be continually engaged, if we would be more strengthened in the IN- 
NER MAN, and make real progress toward perfection. Indeed, the highest per- 
fection we can attain to in the present state is alloyed with much imperfection ; and 
our best knowledge is obscured by shades of ignorance. *' We see through a glass darkly." 
An humble knowledge of thyself, therefore, is a more certain way of leading thee to God, than 
the most profound investigations of science. Science, however, or a proper knowledge of 
the things belonging to the present life, is so far from being blamable in itself, that it is good, 
and ordained of God ; but purity of conscience, and holiness of life, must ever be preferred be- 
fore it. isnd because men are more solicitous to learn much than to live weU, they faU into 
error, and receive little or no benefit from their studies. Oh, that the same diligence were 
exerted to eradicate vice, and implant virtue, as are applied to the discussion of unprofitable 
questions, and the " vain strife of words!" So much daring wickedness would not be found 
among the common ranks of men, nor so much licentiousness disgrace those who live in mon- 
asteries. Assuredly, in the approaching day of judgment, it will not be inquired of us what 
we have read, but what we have done; not how eloquently we have spoken, but how holily 
we have lived. Thomas a Kempis. 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



227 




"Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
Had in her sober livery all things clad." 



EVEJYIJfG IJV PARADISE. 

From "Paradise Lost," Book IV. 



OW came still evening on, and twilight 
gray 

Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
They to their grassy couch, these to their 

nests, 
Were slunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
She all night long her amorous descant sung ; 
Silence was pleased ; now glowed the firma- 
ment 
With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest; till the moon. 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length 
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light. 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 

When Adam thus to Eve : "Fair consort, the 

hour 
Of night, and all things now retired to rest, 
Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
Labor and rest, as day and night, to men 
Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep. 
Now falling with soft slumberous weight, in- 
clines 
Our eyelids ; other creatures all day long 
Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest ; 
Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
Appointed, which declares his dignity. 
And the regard of Heaven on all his ways ; 
While other animals unactive range. 
And of their doings God takes no account. 



To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the 

east. 
With first approach of light, we must be 

risen, 
And at our pleasant labor, to reform 
Yon flowery arbors ; yonder alleys green. 
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown. 
That mock our scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop their wanton 

growth ; 
These blossoms also, and those dropping 

gums. 
That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth. 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease. 
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us 

rest." 

John Milton. 



EXAMPLE, 

(*E scatter seeds with careless hand. 
And dream we ne'er shall see them 
more; 

But for a thousand years. 
Their fruit appears. 
In weeds that mar the land, 
Or healthful store. 

The deeds we do, the words we say, 
Into still air they seem to fleet. 

We count them ever past ; 



228 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



But they shall last ; 
In the dread judgment they 
And we shall meet ! 

I charge thee by the years gone by, 
For the love's sake of brethren dear, 



Keep thou the one true way, 
In work and play, 
Lest in that world their cry 
Of woe thou hear. 

John Keble. 




'* Its waves are kneeling on the strand, 
As kneels the human knee." 



SOJfG. 

(From " The Tent on the Beach.") 



rajHE harp at Nature's advent strung 
"P Has never ceased to play ; 
The song the stars of morning sung 
Has never died away. 

And prayer is made, and praise is given. 

By all things near and far ; 
The ocean looketh up to heaven, 

And mirrors every star. 

Its waves are kneeling on the strand, 

As kneels the human knee. 
Their white locks bowing to the sand. 

The priesthood of the sea. 

They pour their glittering treasures forth. 
Their gifts of pearl they bring, 

And all the listening hills of earth 
Take up the song they sing. 

The green earth sends her incense up 
From many a mountain shrine ; 

From folded leaf and dewy cup 
She pours her sacred wine. 

The mists above the morning rills* 
Rise white as wings of prayer ; 

The altar-curtains of the hills 
Are sunset's purple air. 



The winds with hymns of praise are loud. 

Or low with sobs of pain. 
The thunder-organ of the cloud. 

The dropping tears of rain. 

With drooping head and branches crossed. 

The twilight forest grieves. 
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost 

From all its sunlit leaves. 

The blue sky is the temple's arch, 

Its transept, earth and air. 
The music of its starry march 

The choirs of a prayer. 

So Nature keeps the reverent frame 

With which her years began. 
And all her signs and voices shame 

The prayerless heart of man. 

John Greenleap WHrniER. 



JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL. 

(It is said that a bird, pursued b}- some enemy of its 
own kind, flew into the study of tlie divine for safety, 
nestling close to him. After it had departed, he wrote the 
following hymn.) 

JTESUS, lover of my soul, 
QJ liCt me to thy bosom fly. 
While the nearer waters roll. 
While the tempest still is high I 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



229 



Hide me, my Saviour, hide, 
Till the storm of life is past ; 

Safe into thy haven guide ; 
Oh, receive my soul at last ! 

Other refuge have I none, 

Hangs my helpless soul on thee ; 
Leave, ah, leave me not alone : 

Still support and comfort me ! 
All my trust on thee is stayed. 

All my help from thee I bring ; 
Cover my defenseless head 

With the shadow of thy wing ! 

Wilt thou not regard my call ? 

Wilt thou not regard my prayer? 
Lo ! I sink, I faint, I fall ! 

Lo ! on thee I cast my care : 
Reach me out thy gracious hand. 

While I of thy strength receive ! 



Hoping against hope I stand. 
Dying, and behold, I live ! 

Thou, O Christ, art all I want; 

More than all in thee I find ; 
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint. 

Heal the sick and lead the blind. 
Just and holy is thy Name ; 

I am all unrighteousness ; 
False, and full of sin I am. 

Thou art full of truth and grace. 

Plenteous grace with thee is found, 

Grace to cover all my sin ; 
Let the healing streams abound, 

Make and keep me pure within. 
Thou of life the fountain art. 

Freely let me take of thee ; 
Spring thou up within my heart. 

Rise to all eternity ! 

Charles Wesley. 



FROM ''MIRIAM: 







^^^-t^// 






230 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



MORJ^IKG BYMK. 

(From "Paradise Lost," Book V.) 

fMHESE are thy glorious works, Parent of 
F Good, 

Almighty ! thine this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair ; thyself how wondrous 

then! 
Unspeakable, who sit'st above these heavens 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power di- 
vine. 
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light. 
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night. 
Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye in heaven ; 
On earth join all ye creatures, to extol 
Him first. Him last, Him midst, and without 

end. 
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night. 
If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling 

morn 
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy 

sphere. 
While day arises, that sweet hour 'of prime. 
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and 

soul. 
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his 

praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb- 

'st, 
And when high noon hast gained, and when 

thou falPst. 
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now 

fly est 
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that 

flies ; 
And ye five other wandering fires, that move 
In mystic dance, not without song, resound 
His praise, who out of darkness called up 

light. 
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix. 
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless 

change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold. 
In honor to the world's great Author rise ; 
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored 

sky, 



Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers. 
Rising or falling^ still advance his praise. 
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters 

blow. 
Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye 

pines. 
With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow. 
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
Join voices all, ye living souls ; ye birds, 
That singing up to Heaven's gate ascend, 
Bear on your wings and in your notes his 

praise. 
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep. 
Witness if I be silent morn or even. 
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade. 
Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise. 
Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
To give us only good ; and, if the night 
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed. 
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 

John Milton. 



J{EABEB HOME. 

§NE sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er : 
I am nearer my home to-day 
Than I ever have been before ; 

Nearer my Father's house. 

Where the many mansions be ; 

Nearer the great white throne. 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life. 

Where we lay our burden down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross ; 

Nearer gaining the crown : 

But lying darkly between. 

Winding down through the night. 
Is the silent, unknown stream. 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dark abysm ; 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 
Have almost gained the brink ; 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



231 



If it be I am nearer home 
Even to-day than I think ! 

Father, perfect my trust ; 

Let my spirit feel in death, 
That her feet are firmly set 

On the rock of a living faith! 

Phgebe Gary. 




Phcebk Gary. 



THE STATUE IJV CLAY. 
AKE me a statue," said the King, 
^f(ji:)l "Of marble white as snow ; 
It must be pure enough to stand 
Before my throne, at my right-hand, 
The niche is waiting, go !" 

The sculptor heard the King's command. 

And went upon his way ; 
He had no marble, but he went 
With willing hands and high intent. 

To mould his thoughts in clay. 

Day after day he wrought the clay. 
But knew not what he wrought : 
^e sought the help of heart and brain, 



But could not make the riddle plain ; 
It lay beyond his thought. 

To-day the statue seemed to grow, 

To-morrow it stood still ; 
The third day all was well again ; 
Thus, year by year, in joy and pain, 

He wrought his Master's will. 

At last his life-long work was done, — 

It was a happy day : 
He took his statue to the King, 
But trembled like a guilty thing. 

Because it was but clay I 

"Where is my statue?" asked the King. 

" Here, Lord," the sculptor said. 
" But I commanded marble." " True, 
But lacking that, what could I do 

But mould in clay instead?" 

" Thou Shalt not unrewarded go, 
Since thou hast done thy best ; 
Thy statue shall acceptance win, 
It shall be as it should have been, 
For I will do the rest." 

He touched the statue and it changed ; 

The clay falls off, and lo! 
A marble shape before Him stands, 
The perfect work of heavenly hands, 

An angel pure as snow ! 

EiCHARD Henry Stoddard. 



UP-HILL. 

JOES the road wind up-hill all the way? 
Yes, to the very end. 
Will the day's journey take the whole long 
day? 
From morn to night, my friendr 

But is there for the night a resting-place ? 

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
May not the darkness hide it from my face ? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? 

They will not keep you standing at the door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ? 

Of labor you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? 

Yea, beds for all who come. 

Chjiistina Georgps'a Rossetti, 



232 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 




J-c^c 



7- 



^20 



TRUST. 



1 CANNOT see, with my small human sight, 
C Why God should lead this way or that for 

me; 
I only know he hath said : " Child, follow 

me!" 

But I can trust. 

I know not why my path should be at times 
So straightly hedged, so strangely barred be- 
fore; 
I only know God could keep wide the door ; 
But I can trust. 

I find no answer ; often, when beset 
With questions fierce and subtle on my way, 
And often have but strength to faintly pray ; 
But I can trust. 

I often wonder, as with trembling hand 
X cast the seed alon^ the furrowed ground, 



If ripened fruit for God will there be found ; 
But I can trust. 

I cannot know why suddenly the storm 
Should rage so fiercely round me in its wrath; 
But this I know, God watches all my path — 
And I can trust. 

I may not draw aside the mystic veil 

That hides the unknown future from my 

sight I 
Nor know if for me waits the dark or light ; 
But I can trust. 

I have no power to look across the tide, 
To see while here the land beyond the river ; 
But this I know, I shall be God's forever ; 
So I can trust. 

Anqnymqus. 



\ 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



233 



THE DYIJYG CHRlSTIAJf TO 
HIS SOUL. 

fITAL spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!" 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper ! angels say : 
Sister spirit, come away! 
What is this absorbs me quite, 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight. 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ; 

Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring ! 

Lend, lend your wings ; I mount ! I fly ! 

O Grave ! where is thy victory ? 

O Death ! where is thy sting ? 

Alexander Pope. 



THE LAJfDIJ^G OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

fHE breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed. 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 
And the stars heard, and the sea ; 

And the sounding isles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim-band ; 



Why had they come to wither there. 
Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine. 

Aye, call it holy ground — 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstained what there they 
found — 
Freedom to worship God ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



THE SLEEP. 

§F all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar 
Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if there any is 
For gift or grace surpassing this: 
" He giveth His beloved sleep ?" 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved. 

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep. 
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse. 
The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith, all undisproved, 

A little dust, to over-weep. 
And bitter memories to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake. 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

" Sleep soft, beloved," we sometimes say. 
But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids 
creep ; 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

O earth so full of dreary noises ! 

O men, with wailing in your voices ! 

O delved gold, the waller's heap ! 
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! 
God strikes a silence through you all. 

And "giveth His beloved sleep." 



234 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Aye, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 

Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say, and through the word 
I think their happy smile is heard, 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart, that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

Who sees through tears the mummers 
leap^ 
Would now its wearied vision close, 
Would childlike on His love repose 

Who " giveth His beloved sleep." 

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me. 

And round my bier ye come to weep. 
Let one, most loving of you all. 
Say : Not a tear must o'er her fall ; 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Elizabeth Bahrett Browning. 



And showed the names whom love of God 

had blessed, 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 

Leigh Hunt. 



ABO U BEJY ADEEM. 

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe in- 
crease I) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. 
And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. 
An angel writing in a book of gold. 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
" What writest thou ?" The vision raised its 

head. 
And with a look made all of sweet accord. 
Answered, *' The names of those who love the 

Lord." 
" And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not 

so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. 
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, 

then. 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote and vanished. The next 

night, 
It came a^ain with a great wakening light, 




Leigh Hunt. 



THE TEMPLE OF JfATUBE. 

JIJ^ALK not of temples ; there is one 
W Built without hands, to mankind given; 
Its lamps are the meridian sun 

And all the stars of heaven ; 
Its walls are the cerulean sky ; 

Its floor the earth so green and fair ; 
The dome its vast immensity ; 

All nature worships there. 

The Alps arrayed in stainless snow. 

The Andean ranges yet untrod. 
At sunrise and at sunset glow 

Like altar-fires to God. 
A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze. 

As if with hallowed victims rare ; 
And thunder lifts its voice in praise ; 

All nature worships there. 

The ocean heaves resistlessly. 

And pours his glittering treasure forth ; 
His waves, the priesthood of the sea. 

Kneel on the shell-gemmed earth, 
And there emit a hollow sound, 

As if they murmured praise and prayer ; 
On every side 'tis holy ground ; 

All Nature worships there. 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 235 

The cedar and the mountain pine, From tower and tree and middle air ; 

The willow on the fountain's brim, The rushing river murmurs praise ; 

The tulip and the eglantine, All Nature worships there ! 

In reverence bend to Him ; David Vedder. 
The song-birds pour their sweetest lays 



i4^ kc/LA, uric 1*iA4CffLMLvA/tjU-a/iCaQ 




15 



236 POEMS OF RELIGION. 

TIME AKB ETERJ^ITY. 

'HERE is an ancient fable told by the Greek and Roman Churches, which, fable as it 
is, may for its beauty and singularity well deserve to be remembered, that in one of 
the earliest persecutions to which the Christian world was exposed, seven Christian 

'f youths sought concealment in a lonely cave, and there, by God's appointment, fell into 
a deep and death-like slumber. They slept, the legend runs, two hundred years, till the 
greater part of mankind had received the faith of the gospel, and that Church which they had 
left a poor and afflicted orphan, had kings for her nursing fathers and queens for her nursing 
mothers. They then at length awoke, and entering into their native Ephesus, so altered now 
that its streets were altogether unknown to them, they cautiously inquired if there were any 
Christians in the city. 

"Christians?" was the answer; " we are all Christians here." 

And they heard with a thankful joy the change which, since they left the world, had taken 
place in the opinion of its inhabitants. On one side they were shown a stately fabric adorned 
with a gilded cross, and dedicated, as they were told, to the worship of their crucified Master; 
on another, schools for the exposition of those Gospels, of which, so short a time before, the 
bare profession was proscribed and deadly. But no fear was now to be entertained of those 
miseries which encircled the cradle of Christianity; no danger now of the rack, the lions, or 
the sword ; the emperor and his prefects held the same faith with themselves, and all the 
wealth of the east, and all the valor and authority of the western world, were exerted to pro- 
tect and endow the professors and teachers of their religion. 

But joyful as these tidings must at first have been, their further inquiries are said to have 
met with answers which very deeply surprised and pained them. They learned that the 
greater part of those that called themselves by the name of Christ, were strangely regardless 
of the blessings which Christ had bestowed, and of the obligations which he had laid upon 
his followers. They found that, as the world had become Christian. Christianity itself liad be- 
come worldly ; and, wearied and sorrowful, they besought of God to lay them to sleep again, 
crying out to those who followed them : 

'• You have shown us many heathens who have given up their old Idolatry without gaining 
anything better in its room ; many who are of no religion at all ; and many with whom the re- 
ligion of Christ is no more than a cloak for licentiousness ; but where, where are the Chris- 
tians? " 

And thus they returned to their cave; and there God had compassion on them, releasing 
them, once for all, from the world for whose reproof their days had been lengthened, and re- 
moving their souls to the society of their ancient friends and pastors, the martyrs and saints 
of an earlier and better generation. 

Reginald Heber. 



IJ^YOCATIOK TO LIGHT. 

(From •• Paradise Lost," Book IH.) 

TWT AIL, lioly Light ! offspring of heaven, first- Or hearest thou rather pure ethereal stream, 

1%1 born. Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the 
Or of the eternal co-eternal beam ! sun. 

May I express thee unblamed? since God is Before the heavens thou wert, and at the 

light, voice 

And never but in unapproached light Of God, as with a mantle didst invest 

Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, The rising world of waters dark and deep, 

JJri^^ht ellluence of bright essence incr^{ite I Wpn from the void und formless infinite. 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



237 



Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 
Escaped the Stygian pool, though long de- 
tained 
In that obscure sojourn ; while in my flight 
Through utter and through middle darkness 

borne. 
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, 
I sung of Chaos, and eternal Kight ; 
Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture 

down 
The dark descent, and up to reascend, 
Though hard and rare ! Thee I revisit safe, 
And feel thy sovereign vital lamp ; but thou 
Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
So thick a drop serene hath quenched their 

orbs, 
Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more 
Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt 
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief 
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, 
That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling 

flow, 
Nightly I visit ; nor sometimes forget 
Those other two equaled with me in fate 
(So were I equaled with them in renown), 
Blind Thamyris, and blind Mseonides, 
And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old ; 
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird 
Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid, 
Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the 

year 
Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
Or, flocks or herds, or human face divine ; 
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 
Surrounds me ; from the cheerful ways of 

men 



Cut off; and for the book of knowledge fair, 

Presented with a universal blank 

Of nature's works, to me expunged and 

razed. 
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out ! 
So much the rather thou, celestial Light ! 
Shine inward, and the mind through all her 

powers 
IiTadiate; there plant eyes; all mist from 

thence 
Purge and disperse ; that I may see and tell 
Of things invisible to mortal sight. 

John Milton. 



" WHATEVER IS, IS BEST." 

KNOW, as my life grows older. 

And mine eyes have clearer sight, 
That under each rank Wrong, somewhere 

There lies the root of Right. 
That each sorrow has its purpose. 

By the sorrowing oft unguessed, 
But as sure as the sun brings morning. 

Whatever is, is best. 

I know that each sinful action, 

As sure as the night brings shade, 
Is sometime, somewhere, punished, 

Tho' the hour be long delayed. 
I know that the soul is aided 

Sometimes by the heart's unrest. 
And to grow means often to suffer; 

But whatever is, is best. 

I know there are no errors 

In the great Eternal plan. 
And all things work together 

For the final good of man. 
And I know when my soul speeds onward 

In the grand, eternal quest, 
I shall sa}^, as I look earthward. 

Whatever is, is best. 

Anonymous. 



lOVE. 

'HAT is what we want — love toward God and love toward man. It is said the larks of 
Scotland are the sweetest singing birds of earth. No piece of mechanism that man 
has ever made has the soft, sweet, glorious music in it that the lark's throat has. When 
the farmers of Scotland walk out early in the morning they flush the larks from the 
grass, and as they rise they sing, and as they sing they circle, and higher and higher they go, 
circling as they sing, until at last the notes of their voices die out in the sweetest strains that 
earth ever listened to. Let us begin to circle up, and sing as we circle, and go higher and 
higher, until we flood the throne of God itself, an^ the Strains of our voices melt in sweetest 
Sympathy with the n^usic of the skies, Sam. P. Jqne§, 



I 








i 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 
THE HERMIT. 



jAR in a wild, unknown to public view, 
I® From youth to age a reverend hermit 

grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well. 
Remote from men, with God he passed his 



Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so Sacred, such serene repose 

Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose: 



To find if books, or Swains, report it right 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly 

dew), 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore. 
And fixed the scallop in his hat before ; 
Then, with the rising sun a journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass. 
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 




Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew." 



That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey; 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway; 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast. 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 
So when a smooth expanse receives impressed 
Calm nature's image on its watery breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending 

grow. 
And skies beneath with answering colors 

glow; 
But, if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side. 
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun. 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
To clear this doubt, to know the world by 

sight, 



But when the southern sun had warmed the 
day, 

A youth came posting o'er a crossing way • 

His raiment decent, his complexion fair. 

And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair ; 

Then near approaching, "Father, hail I " he 
cried. 

And, "Hail, my son ! " the reverend sire re- 
plied. 

Words followed words, from question answer 
flowed. 

And talk of various kinds deceived the road ; 

Till each with other pleased, and, loath to 
part, 

While in their age they differ, join in heart. 

Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 



240 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Thus useful ivy clasps an elm around. 
Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature, in silence, bid the world repose, 
When, near the road, a stately palace rose. 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees 

they pass. 
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides 

with grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the w andering stranger's 

home ; 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate; 
The tables groan with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they 

drown. 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of 

down. 
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep. 
And shake the neighboring woods to banish 

sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call ; 
An early banquet decks the splendid hall ; 
Rich, luscious wine a golden goblet graced, 
Which the kind master forced the guests to 

taste. 
Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch 

they go ; 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of 

woe; 
His cup was vanished ; for in secret guise, 
The younger guest purloined the glittering 

prize. 
As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
Glittering and basking in the summer ray. 
Disordered stops to shun tlie danger near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with 

fear. 
So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road, 
The shining spoil his wily partner showed. 
He stopped with silence, walked with trem- 
bling heart, 
And much he wished, but durst not ask to 

part; 
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it 

hard 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 
While thus they pass, the sun his glory 

shrouds, 



The changing skies hang Out their sable 
clouds ; 

A sound in air presaged approaching rain, 

And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 

Warned by the signs, the wandering pair re- 
treat 

To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 

'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, 

And strong, and large, and unimproved 
around ; 

Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, 

Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 

As near the miser's heavy door they drew. 

Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 

The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, 
began. 

And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran; 

Here long they knock, but knock or call in 
vain, 

Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain 

At length some pity moves the master's 
breast ; 

'Twas then his mansion first received a guest ; 

Slow creaking turns the door with jealous 
care. 

And half he welcomes in the shivering pair. 

One frugal fagot lights the naked walls. 

And nature's fervor through their limbs re- 
calls ; 

Bread of the coarsest sort, with meager wine. 

Each hardly granted, served them both to 
dine; 

And when the tempest first appeared to cease, 

A ready warning bid them part in peace ; 

With still remark, the pondering hermit view- 
ed, 

In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 

And w hy should such, within himself he cried. 

Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? 

But what new marks of wonder soon take 
place 

In every settling feature of his face. 

When, from his vest, the young companion 
bore 

That cup the generous landlord owned before, 

And paid profusely with the precious bowl 

The stinted kindness of his churlish soul. 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 

The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky ; 

A fresher green the swelling leaves display. 

And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the 
day; 

The weather courts them from their poor re- 
treat. 

And the glad master bolts the weary gate. 



POEMS OF RELlGlON^. 



241 



While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom 

wrought 
With all the travail of uncertain thought ; 
His partner's acts without their cause appear; 
'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness 

here : 



Again the wanderers want a place to lie ; 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
The soil improved around, the mansion neat^ 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great ; 
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind< 
Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind. 




When the grave household round his hall repair, 
Warned by a bell, and close the hour with prayer.' 



Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 
Now night's dim shades again involve the 
sky ; 



Hither the walkers turn their weary feet. 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest 
guise, 



242 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 
" Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
To Ilim who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
From Him you come, for Him accept it here, 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." 
He spoke, and bid the welcome tables spread. 
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed ; 
When the grave household round his hall re- 
pair. 
Warned by a bell, and close the hour with 

prayer. 
At length the world, renewed by calm repose. 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near a closed cradle where an infant slept. 
And writhed his neck! the landlord's little 

pride, 
O strange return! grew black, and gasped, 

and died! 
Horror of horrors : what, his only son ! 
How looked our hermit when the fact was 

done! 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder 

part. 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his 

heart. 
Confused, and struck with silence at the deed. 
He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with 

speed ; 
His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay 
Perplexed with roads ; a servant showed the 

way; 
A river crossed the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oak an open bridge supplied, 
And deep the waves beneath them bending 

glide. 
The youth, who seemed to watch a time to 

sin. 
Approached the careless guide, and thrust 

him in ; 
Plunging, he falls, and rising, lifts his head. 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the 

dead. 
While sparkling rage, inflames the father's 

eyes, 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries : 
"Detested wretch!" But scarce his speech 

began. 
When the strange partner seemed no longer 

man; 
His youthful face seemed more serenely sweet, 
His robe turned white, and flowed upon his 

feet, 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair, 



Celestial odors breathe through purpled air. 
And wings, whose colors glittered as the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes dis- 
play. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight. 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion 

grew. 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do. 
Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends. 
And in a calm his settling temper ends ; 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke, 
The voice of music ravished as he spoke : 
" Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice un- 
known. 
In sweet memorial rise before the Throne ; 
These charms success in our bright region 

find, 
And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; 
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky ; 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-serv^ant I. 
Then know the truth of government divine. 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
The Maker justly claims that world he made ; 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its secret majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work his ends. 
'Tis thus, withdrawn, in state from human 

eye. 
The Power exerts his attributes on high. 
Your action uses, nor controls your will. 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
What strange events can strike with more 

surprise 
Than those which lately struck thy wonder- 
ing eyes? 
Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty 

just. 
And where you oan't unriddle, learn to trust. 
The great, vain man, who fared on costly 

food. 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good. 
Who made his ivory stand with goblets shine. 
And forced his guests to morning draughts of 

wine, 
Has with the cup the graceless custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 
The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted 

door 
Ne'er moved in pity to the wandering poor, 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be 

kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the 
bowl, 



POEMS OF HELIGIOIC. 



m 



And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of l^ad, 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs helow. 
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod. 
But now the child half-weaned his heart from 

God; 
Child of his age, for him he lived in pain, 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ! 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all but thee, in tits he seemed to go, 
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack. 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ! 
This night his treasured heaps he meant to 

steal. 
And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind ; this trial 

o'er. 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 
On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew; 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew ; 
Thus stood Elisha, when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp ascending left the view. 
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 
The bending hermit here a prayer begun : 
'"Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be 

done!" 
Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
And passed a life of piety and peace. 

Thomas Parnell. 



JVO SECTS IJV HE A VEJV. 

fMALK ING of sects till late one eve, 
W Of the various doctrines the saints be- 
lieve. 
That night I stood in troubled dream. 
By the side of a darkly flowing stream. 

And a " Churchman" down to the river came ; 
When I heard a strange voice call his name. 
'' Good father, stop ; when you cross this tide 
You must leave your robes on the other side." 

But the aged father did not mind, 
And his long gown floated out behind 
As down to the stream his way he took. 
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 



" I'm bound for Heaven, and when I'm there 
I shall want my book of common prayer ; 
And though I put on a starry crown 
I should feel quite lost without my gown." 

Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track. 
But his gown was heavy, and held him back, 
And the poor old father tried in vain 
A single step in the flood to gain. 

I saw him again on the other side. 
But his silk gown floated on the tide ; 
And no one asked in that blessed spot 
Whether he belonged to "the Church" or not. 

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed. 
His dress of a sober hue was made ; 
" My coat and hat must be all of gray, 
I cannot go any other way." 

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his 

chin. 
And staidly, solemnly waded in. 
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down 

tight 
O'er his forehead, so cold and white. 

But a strong wind carried away his hat; 
A moment he silently sighed over that. 
And then, as he gazed on the further shore. 
The coat slipped off and was seen no more. 

As he entered Heaven his suit of gray 
Went quietly sailing — away — away, 
And none of the angels questioned him 
About the width of his beaver's brim. 

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms, 
Tied nicely up, in his aged arms, 
And hymns as many, a very wise thing, . 
That the people in Heaven all round might 
sing. 

But I thought he heaved an anxious sigh 
As he saw the river ran broad and high. 
And looked rather surprised, as, one by one. 
The psalms and hymns in the waves went 
down. 

And after him with his mss.. 
Come Wesley, the pattern of Godliness, 
But he cried, " Dear me ! what shall I do ? 
The water has soaked me through and 
through.'* 

And there on the river far and wide. 
Away they went down the swollen tide, 



244 



POEMS OF RELIGIOK'. 



And the saint, astonished, passed through 

alone, 
Without the manuscripts, up to the throne. 

Then gravely walking, two saints by name, 
Down to the stream together came, 
But as thc)^ stopped by the river's brink, 
I saw one saint from the other shrink. 

*' Sprinkled or plunged ? may I ask you, 

friend, 
How you attain to life's great end ? 
" Thus, with a few drops on my brow ;" 
"But 1 have been dipped, as you'll see me 

now." 

" And I really think it will hardly do. 
As I'm ' close communion.' to cross, with you; 
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss. 
But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 



Then straightway plunging with all his might 
Away to the left — his friend to the right. 
Apart they went from this world of sin, 
But at last together they entered in. 

And now, when the river was rolling on, 

A Presbyterian Church came down ; 

Of women there seemed an innumerable 

throng, 
But the men I could count as they passed 

along. 

And concerning the road they could never 

agree ; 
The Old or the New way, which it could be, 
Nor never a moment paused to think 
That both would lead to the river's brink. 



And a sound of murmuring long and loud. 
Came ever up from the thronging crowd : 
" You're in the old way and I'm in the new, 
That is the false, and this is the true — " 
Or, "I'm in the old way and you're in the 

new. 
That is the false, and this is the true." 



But the brethren only seemed to speak, 
Modest the sisters walked and meek. 
And if ever one of them chanced to say 
What troubles she met with on the way, 



How she longed to pass to the other side, 
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 
A voice arose from the brethren then : 
" Let no one speak but the ' holy men ;' 
For have you not heard the words of Paul : 
* Oh ! let the women keep silence all.' " 

I watched them long in my curious dream. 

Till they stood by the borders of the stream ; 

Then, j ust as I thought, the two were met ; 

But all the brethren were talking yet. 

And would talk on, till the heaving tide 

Carried them over, side by side ; 

Side by side, for the way was one, 

The toilsome journeying of life was done. 

And all who in Christ the Savior died 

Came out alike on the other side ; 

No forms, or crosses, or books had they. 

No gowns of silk, or suits of gray, 

No creeds to guide them, or manuscripts, 

For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 

Anonymois. 



MISSIOJ^AR r HTMJV. 

fROM Greenland's icy mountains, 
From India's coral strand. 
Where Afric's sunny fountains 
Roll down their golden sand ; 
From many an ancient river, 
From many a palmy plain. 
They call us to deliver 
Their land from error's chain. 



What though the spicy breezes 

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle, 
Though every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile ; 
In vain with lavish kindness 

The gifts of God are strewn. 
The heathen, in his blindness, 

Bows down to wood and stone. 

Shall we whose souls are lighted 

With wisdom from on high ; 
Shall we to man benighted 

The lamp of life deny ? 
Salvation ! oh salvation ! 

The joyful sound proclaim. 
Till each remotest nation 

Has learned Messiah's name. 

Reginald Heber. 



\ 



1>0EMS OF RELIGIOK. 



245 



PRAYER. 

filAYER is the soul's sincere desire 
Uttered or unexpressed ; 
The motion of a hidden fire 

That trembles in the breast- 
Prayer is the burden of a sigh, 

The falling of a tear, 
The upward glancing of an eye. 
When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the s!mpl<^st form of speech 

That infant lips can try ; 
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 

The Majesty on high. 

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. 

The Christian's native air ; 
His watchword at the gates of death : 

He enters heaven by prayer. 



Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 

Returning from his ways ; 
While angels in their songs rejoice, 

And say, " Behold,he prays !" 

The saints in prayer appear as one 
In word, and deed, and mind, 

When with the Father and His Son 
Their fellowship they find. 

Nor prayer is made on earth alone ; 

The Holy Spirit pleads ; 
And Jesus on the eternal throne, 

For sinners intercedes. 

O Thou, by whom we come to God, 
The Life, the Truth, the Way, 

The path of prayer thyself hast trod ; 
Lord, teach us how to pray! 

James Montgomery. 







6^:)y^f:' 




HABIT. 

f^ IKE flakes of snow that fall unperceived upon the earth, the seemingly unimportant 

•^* /• events of life succeed one another. As the snow gathers together, so are our habits 

^^ formed. No single flake that is added to the pile produces a sensible change, no single 

action creates, however it may exhibit, a man's character. Jeremy Taylor. 



246 



POEMS OF RELtGIOIf. 



AT THE LAST. 

FEEL m myself the future life. I am like a forest which has been more than onc6 cut 
down. The new shoots are stronger and livelier than ever. I am rising, I know, toward 
the sky. The sunshine is on my head. The earth gives me its generous sap, but Heaven 
lights me with the reflection of unknown worlds. You say the soul is nothing but the re- 
sultant of bodily powers. Why, then, is my soul the most luminous when my bodily powers 
begin to fail? Winter is on my head and eternal Spring is in my heart. Then I breathe, at 
this hour, the fragrance of the lilacs, the violets and the roses, as at twenty years. The near- 
er I approach the end the plainer I hear around me the immortal symphonies of the worlds 
which invite me. It is marvelous, yet simple. It is a fairy tale, and it is history. For half a 
century I have been writing my thoughts in prose, verse, history, philosophy, drama, romance, 
tradition, satire, ode, song — I have tried all. But I feel that I have not said the thousandth 
part of what is in me. When I go down to the grave I can say, like so many others, "• I have 
finished my day's work ;" but I cannot say, " I have finished my life." My day's work will be- 
gin again the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley ; it is a thoroughfare. It closes in 
the twilight to open with the dawn. I improve every hour, because I love this world as my 
fatherland ; because the truth compels me as it compelled Voltaire, that human divinity. My 
work is only a beginning. My monument is hardly above its foundation. I would be glad to 
see it mounting and mounting forever. The thirst for the infinite proves infinity. 

Victor Hugo. 
^^0 




Victor Hugo. 



VIRTUE. 

QWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright — 
© The bridal of the earth and sky ; 
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose<! whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 

And thou must die. 



Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses ; 
A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
Thy music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives : 
But, though the Whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefiy lives. 

George Herbert. 



GOD. 



§THOU Eternal One ! whose presence 
bright 
All space doth occupy — all motion guide ; 
Unchanged through time's all devastating 
flight. 
Thou only God ! there is no God beside. 
Being above all beings, mighty One ! 
Whom none can comprehend and none ex- 
plore ! 
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone. 
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er ! 
Being whom we call God, and know 
more! 

In its sublime research philosophy 



no 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



247 



May measure out the ocean deep — may 
count 
The sands, or the sun's rays — ^but God! for 
Thee 
There is no weight nor measure. - None can 
mount 
Up to thy mysteries. Reason's bright spark, 
Though kindled by the light, in vain 
would try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so 

high, 
Even like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, then existence — Lord, on Thee 
Eternity had its foundation ; all 

Spring forth from Thee— of light, joy, har- 
mony. 
Sole origin — all life, all beauty there ; 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with day divine ; 

Thou art, and wast, and shall be glorious, 
great I 

Life-giving, life-sustaining potentate. 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe sur- 
round. 
Upheld by Thee — by Thee inspired with 
breath ! 
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, 

And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze. 
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth 
from Thee; 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 

Shine around the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of Heaven's bright army glitters in Thy 
praise. 

A million torches lighted by Thy hand 

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; 
They own Thy power, accomplish thy com- 
mand. 
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we caU them? Piles of crystal 
light? 
A glorious company of golden streams ? 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright? 
Suns lighting systems with their joyous 
beams ? 
But Thou to them art as the moon to night. 

Yes, as the drop of water in the sea. 
All this magnificence in Thee is lost j 



What are ten thousand worlds compared with 
Thee ? 
And what am I, then ! Heaven's unnumber- 
ed host. 
Though multiplied by myriads, and array'd 

In all the glory of sublimest thought, 
Is but an atom in the balance weighed 
Against Thy greatness — is a cypher brought 
Against infinity. What am I, then ? Naught. 

Naught !— but the effluence of Thy light di- 
vine. 

Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom, 
too ; 
Yes ; in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine. 

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
Naught! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly 

Eager toward Thy presence ; for in Thee 
I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high ; 

E'en to the throne of Thy divinity. 

I am, O God, and surely thou must be ! 

Thou art ! directing, guiding all thou art ! 

Direct my understanding, then, to Thee ; 
Control my spirit, guide my wondering heart ; 

Though but an atom 'midst immensity, 
Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! 
I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and 
earth. 
On the last verge of mortal being stand. 
Close to the realm where angels have their 
birth. 
Just off the boundaries of the spirit land. 
From the Russian of Derzelavix. 



SOMETIME. 

§OMETIME, when all life's lessons have 
been learned. 
And sun and stars forevermore have set. 
The things which our weak judgments here 
have spurned, — 
The things o'er which we grieved with 
lashes wet 
Will flash before us, out of life's dark night. 

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; 
And we shall see how all God's plans were 
right. 
And how what seemed reproof was love 
most true. 

And we shall see how, while we frown and 
sigh, 

God's plans go on as best for you and me ; 
How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, 

Because his wisdom to th§ end could see, 



248 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



And even as wise parents disallow 
Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, 

So, God, perhaps, is keeping from us now 
Life's sweetest things because it seemeth 
good. 

And if, sometimes, commingled with life's 
wine, 

We find the wormwood, and rebel and 
shrink, 
Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 

Pours out this portion for our lips to drink. 
And if some friend we love is lying low, 

Where human kisses cannot reach his face, 
O, do not blame the loving Father so. 

But wear your sorrow with obedient grace ! 

And you shall shortly know that lengthened 
breath 
Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend, 



And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death 
Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. 

If we could push ajar the gates of life. 
And stand within, and all God's workings 
see. 

We could interpret all this doubt and strife. 
And for each mystery could find a key ! 

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart ! 
God's plans, like lilies, pure and white un- 
fold. 
We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart ; 

Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 
And if, through patient toil, we reach the land 
Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may 
rest. 
When we shall clearly know and understand, 
I think that we will say, "God knew the 
best!" 

May Eeley Smith. 




" Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale." 

ODE TO THE CEEATIOJV. 

(Originally published in the Spectator (No. Mi5) and heuce often attributed to Addison.) 

HRHE spacious firmament on high. And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 



F With ^11 the blue ethereal sky, 



Their great Original proclaim 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



249 



Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, 
Does his Creator's power display, 
And publishes to every land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale. 
And, nightly to the list'ning earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
While all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Conlirm the tidings as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real voice nor sound, 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
In Reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
For ever singing as they shine, 
" The hand that made us is divine." 

Andrew Marvell. 



LIGHT. 

(Extract.) 

tOD said : " Let there be light !" 
Grim darkness felt His might. 
And lied away ; 
Then startled seas, and mountains cold. 
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold. 
And cried, " 'Tis day, 'tis day !" 

" Hail, holy light !" exclaimed 
The thunderous cloud that flamed 

O'er daisies white ; 
And lo! the rose, in crimson dressed. 
Leaned sweetly on the lily's breast, 

And blushing, murmured, "Light!" 

Then was the skylark born ; 
Then rose the embattled corn ; 

Then floods of praise 
Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon ; 
And then, in silent night, the moon 

Poured forth her pensive lays. 

Ebenezer Elliott. 



ALOJS'E. 

WALK down the valley of silence — 
Down the dim, noiseless valley, alone. 
And I hear not the fall of a footstep 

Around me, save God's and my own ; 
And the hush of my heart is as holy 

As hovers where angels have flown. 



Long ago was I weary of voices 
Whose music my heart could not w^in ; 

Long ago w^as I weary of noises 

That fretted my soul with their din ; 

Long ago was I weary of places 
Where I found but the human and sin. 

I walked in the world with the worldly, 
I craved what the world never gave, 

And I said, "In the world each ideal, 
That shines like a star on life's wave^ 

Is wrecked on the shores of the real. 
And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 

And still did I pine for the perfect, 
And still found the false with the true ; 

I sought 'mid the human for heaven, 
But caught a mere glimpse of its blue. 

And I wept when the clouds of the mortal 
Veiled even that glimpse from my vicAv. 

And I toiled on, heart tired of the human, 
And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men, 

Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar, 
And I heard a voice call me ; since then 

I walk down the valley of silence 
That lies far beyond mortal ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the valley ? 

'Tis my trysting place with the divine. 
And I fall at the feet of the holy, 

And above me a voice said, "Be mine," 
And there rose from the depths of my spirit 

An echo, "My heart shall be thine." 

Do you ask how I live in the valley ? 

I weep and I dream and I pray. 
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 

That fall on the roses in May, 
And my prayer, like a perfume from censers 

Ascendeth to God night and day. 

In the hush of the valley of silence 
I dream all the songs that I sing. 

And the music floats down the dim valley 
Till each finds a word for each wing. 

That to hearts, like the dove of the deluge, 
A message of peace they may bring. 

But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach ; 

And I have heard songs in the silence 
That never shall float into speech, 

And I have had dreams in the valley 
Too lofty for language to reach, 



250 



POEMS OF RI^^IGION. 



And I have seen thoughts in the valley, 
Ah, me, how my spirit was stirred ! 

And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
Their footsteps can scarcely he heard, 

They pass through the valley like angels. 
Too pure for the touch of a word. 

Do you ask me the place of the valley, 
Ye hearts that are harrowed by care ? 

It lieth afar between mountains. 
And God and his angels are there. 

And one is the dark mount of sorrow. 
And one the bright mountain of prayer. 
Abram J. Ryan. 

(Father Ryan.) 




Abram J. Ryan. 



OJfLY A LITTLE WAY. 

LITTLE way — I know it is not far, 
To that dear home where my beloved are, 
And yet my faith grows weaker as I stand 
A poor, lone pilgrim in a dreary land. 
Where present pain the future bliss obscures. 
And still my heart sits, like a bird upon 
The empty nest, and mourns its treasures 
gone; 

Plumed for their flight, 
And vanished quite. 
Ah ! me, where is the comfort — though I say 
They have but journeyed on a little way ! 

A little way — at times they seem so near. 
Their voices ever murmur at my ear ; 
To all my duties loving presence lend, 
And with sweet ministry my steps attend, 
And bring my soul the luxury of tears. 



'Twas here we met, and parted company. 
Why should their gain be such a grief to me ? 

This scene of loss ! 

Thou heavy cross ! 
Dear Savior, take the burden off", I pray. 
And show me Heaven is but — a little way. 

These sombre robes, these saddened faces, all 
The bitterness and pain of death recall. 
Ah ! let me turn my face where'er I may, 
I see the traces of a sure decay ; 
And parting takes the marrow out of life. 
Secure in bliss, we hold the golden chain 
Which death, with scarce a warning, snaps in 
twain. 

And never more 

Shall time restore 
The broken links. 'Twas only yesterday 
They vanished from our sight — a little way. 

A little way ! This sentence I repeat. 
Hoping and longing to extract some sweet 
To mingle with the bitter. From thy hand 
I take the cup I cannot understand, 
And in my weakness give myself to thee. 
Although it seems so very, very far 
To that dear home where my beloved are, 

I know, I know 

It is not so. 
Oh ! give me faith to feel it when I say 
That they are gone — gone but a little way. 

Anonymous. 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 

fREAD softly— bow the head- 
In reverent silence bow — 
No passing-bell doth toll — 
Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger ! however great. 
With lowly reverence bow ; 

There's, one in that poor shed — 

One by that paltry bed — 
Greater than thou. 

Beneath that Beggar's roof, 
Lo ! Death doth keep his state ; 

Enter — no crowds attend — 

Enter — no guards defend 
This palace-gate. 

That pavement damp and cold 
No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



251 



Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 

An infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short deep gasp, and then 

The parting groan. 

O change — O wondrous change ! — 

Burst are the prison bars — 
This moment there, so low, 
So agonized, and now 

Beyond the stars ! 

O change — stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod I 
The sun eternal breaks — 
The new immortal wakes — 

Wakes with his God. 

Cakoline Anne Bowles Southey. 



LIFE. 



1 MADE a posie while the day ran by ; 

C Here will I smell my remnant out, and ti^ 

My life within this band ; 
But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they 
By noon most cunningly did steal away, 

And withered in my hand. 

My hand was next to them, and then my 

heart ; 
I took, without more thinking, in good part, 

Time's gentle admonition, 
Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, 
Making my mind to smell my fatal day. 

Yet sugaring the suspicion. 

Farewell, dear flowers ; sweetly your time ye 

spent, 
Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament. 

And after death for cures. 
I follow straight without complaints or grief, 
Since if my scent be good, I care not if 
It be as short as yours. 

George Herbert. 



THE STAB OF BETHLEHEM. 

Then, marshalled on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky. 
One star alone, of all the train. 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 
Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
16 



From every host, from every gem ; 
But one alone the Savior speaks. 
It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

Once on the raging seas I rode. 

The storm was loud — the night was dark ; 
The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed 

The wind that tossed my foundering bark. 
Deep horror then my vitals froze. 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; 
When suddenly a star arose, 

It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all. 

It bade my dark forebodings cease. 
And through the storm and danger's thrall 

It led me to the port of peace. 
Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 

I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 
Forever and for evermore, 

The Star— the Star of Bethlehem. 

Henry Kirke White. 




Henry Kirke White. 



THE ELIXIR. 

fMEACH me, my God and King, 
1P In a'll things thee to see. 
And whal I do in anything 
To do it as for thee. 

Not rudely, as a beast, 

To run into an action, 
But still to make thee prepossessed. 

And give it his perfection. 



On'2 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



A man that looks on glass, 

On it may stay his eye, 
Or, if he pleases, through it pass. 
And then the heaven espy. 

All may pf thee partake ; 

Nothing can be so mean. 
Which, with this tincture " for thy sake,' 

Will not grow bright and clean. 



" For he is hideous as the night ; 

And when has ever chose 
A nightingale, for its delight, 

A hueless, scentless rose ?" 

The Caliph then : " No features fair 
Nor comely mein are his ; 

Love is the beauty he doth wear, 
And love his glory Is. 



4 




" Once, when a camel of my train 
There fell in narrow street, 

From broken basket rolled amain 
Rich pearls before my feet. 

" I, nodding to my slaves, that I 
Would freely give them these, 

At once upon the spoil they fly, 
The costly boon to seize. 

'• One only at my side remained : 
Beside this Ethiop, none ; 

He, moveless as the steed he reined, 
Behind me sat alone. 



George Herbert. 



" ' What will thy gain, good fellow, 
Thus lingering at my side?' 

' My king, that I shallfaithfully 
Have guarded thee,' he cried. 



be, 



A servant, with this clause. 

Makes drudgery divine ; 
Who sweeps a room as for thy laws, 

Makes that and the action tine. 

This is the famous stone 

That turneth all to gold ; 
For that which God doth touch and own 

Cannot for less be told. 

George Herbert. 

(The attention of the reader is called to the use of the 
pronoun "his" instead of the modern form " its" in the 
last line of the second stanza. The ordinary meaning of 
the words would obscure the sense of the passage.) 



" True servant's title he may wear. 

He only, who has not 
For his lord's gifts, how rich soe'er, 

His lord himself forgot." 

So thou alone dost walk before 
Thy God with perfect aim. 

From him desiring nothing more 
Beside himself to claim. 



For if thou not to him aspire. 

But to his gifts alone. 
Not love, but covetous desire 

Has -brought thee to his throne. 



THJE SPILT PEARLS. 

MIS courtiers of the Caliph crave : 
" Oh, say liow this may be. 
That of thy slaves this Ethiop slave 
Is best beloved of thee ? 



While such thy prayer, it mounts above 

In vain ; the golden key 
Of God's rich treasure-house of love 

Thine own will never be. 

Richard Chevexix Trench, 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



253 



MA.Y'S MEDLEY. 

"^JARK, how the birds do sing, He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and 

Bi[ And woods do ring ! round, 

All creatures have their joy, and man hath But trimmed with curious lace, 

his. And should take place 

Yet, if we rightly measure, After the trimming, not the stuff and ground. 

Man's joy and pleasure 
Rather hereafter than in present is. Not that he may not here 




"Hark, how the birds do sing, 
And woods do ring !" 



To this life, things of sense 

Make their pretense ; 
In th' other, angels have a right by birth ; 

Man ties them both alone. 

And makes them one, 
With one hand touching heaven, with th' 
other earth. 

In soul he mounts and flies, 
In flesh he dies. 



Taste of the cheer ; 
But as birds drink, and straight lift up the 
head. 

So must he sip and think 

Of better drink 
He may attain to, after he is dead. 

But as his joys are double. 
So is his trouble ; 
He hath two winters, other things but one ; 



254 



Both thoughts and frosts do nip 
And bite his lip; 
Ana he of all things fears two deaths alone. 

Yet even the greatest griefs 
May be reliefs, 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 

Could 



he but take them right, and in their 

ways. 
Happy is he whose heart 
Has found the art 
To turn his double pains to double praise. 
George Herbert. 



t 



HABIT. 

N the vicious ways of the world it mercifully falleth out that we become not extempore 
wicked, but it taketh some time and pains to undo ourselves. We fall not from virtue, 
like Vulcan, in a day. Bad dispositions require some time to grow into bad habits; biid 
habits must undermine good, and often repeated acts make us habitually evil. 

Sir ThoiMas Browne. 



BEJ^^EVOLEJWE. 

'E who does good to one person from a benevolent principle, lays an obligation on the 

whole species, for he shows that he has the interest of mankind at heart, and he sets 

a good example. Our love of good men, therefore, partakes of the nature of gratitude; 

to be destitute of it is a proof of such depravity as even profligates would be ashamed of. 

James Beattie. 




iii 




pOEM^ Of ]pAppiO]N AND )\CTI0N 



THE ARMADA. 



1 TTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble 
^j^ England's praise ; 
I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought 

in ancient days, 
When that great fleet invincible against her 

bore in vain 
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest 

hearts of Spain. 



It was about the lovely close of a warm 

summer day, 
There came a gallant merchant ship full sail 

to Plymouth Bay ; 
Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, be- 
yond Aurigny's isle. 
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving 

many a mile. 
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's 

especial grace ; 
And the tall Pinta till the moon had held her 

close in chase. 
Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed 

along the wall ; 
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edg- 

cumbe's lofty hall ; 



Many a light fishing bark put out to pry along 
the coast, 

And with loose rein and bloody spur rode in- 
land many a post. 

With his white hair unbonnetted, the stout 
old sheriff comes ; 

Behind him march the halberdiers; before 
him sound the drums; 

His yeomen round the market-cross make 
clear an ample space. 

For there behoves him to set up the standard 
of Her Grace. 

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily 
dance the bells. 

As slow upon the labouring wind the royal 
blazon swells. 

Look how the Lion of the Sea lifts up his an- 
cient crown. 

And underneath his deadly paw treads the 
gay lilies down. 

So stalked he when he turned to flight, on 
that famed Picard field, 

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cae- 
sar's eagle shield : 

So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he 
turned to bay, 



258 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



And crushed and torn beneath his claws the 

princely hunters lay. 
Ho! strike the flag-stall tleep, Sir Knight; 

ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids; 
Ho ! gunners, tire a loud salute ; ho I gallants, 

draw your blades! 
Thou sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, 

waft her wide — 
Our glorious SEMrEK Eadem, the banner of our 

pride ! 

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that 

banner's massy fold ; 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that 

haughty scroll of gold ; 
Night sank upon the dusky beach and on the 

purple sea^ 
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor 

ne'er again shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from 

Lynn to Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and busy 

as the day ; 
For swift to east and swift to west, the 

ghastly war-flame spread — 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone ; it 

shone on Beachy Head. 
Far on the deep each Spaniard saw% along 

each southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those 

twinkling points of Are. 
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's 

glittering waves ; 
The rugged miners poured to war from Men- 
dip's sunless caves ; 
O'er Longleat's tower, o'er Cranbourne's 

oaks, the fiery herald flew — 
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the 

rangers of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang 

out from Bristol town. 
And ere the day three hundred horse had met 

on Clifton down ; 
The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth 

into the night, 
And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the 

streak of blood-red light. 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the 

death-like silence broke. 
And with one start, and with one cry, the 

royal city woke. 
At once on all her stately gates arose the 

answering fires; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her 

reeling spires ; 



From all the batteries of the Tower pealed 

loud the voice of fear. 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent 

back a louder cheer ; 
And from the furthest ward was heard the 

rush of hurrying feet, 
And the broader streams of pikes and flags 

rushed down each roaring street. 
And broader still became the blaze, and loud- 
er still the din, 
As fast from every village round the horse 

came spurring in ; 
And eastward straight from wild Blackheath 

the warlike errand went, 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gal- 
lant squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew 

those bright couriers forth ; 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor 

they started for the north ; 
And on, and on, without a pause, untired, 

they bounded still : 
All night from tower to tower they sprang ; 

they sprang from hill to hill, 
Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er 

Darwin's rocky dales, 
Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy 

hills of Wales ; 
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on 

Malvern's lonely height ; 
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the 

Wrekin's crest of light ; 
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on 

Ely's stately fane, 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all 

the boundless plain ; 
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lin- 
coln sent. 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the 

Avide vale of Trent ; 
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on 

Gaunt's embattled pile. 
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the 

Burghers of Carlisle. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 



THE PERFS OFFERIJfG. 

(From ''LallaRookh.'") 

^ OWN WARD the Peri turns her gaze, 
Jl/ And, through the war field's bloody haze, 
Beholds a youthful warrior stand 

Alone beside his native river, 
The red blade broken in his hand, 



POEMS OF rASSlOlSr AND ACTION^. 



And the last arrow in his quiver. 
"Live," said the conqueror; "live to share 
The trophies and the crowns I bear!" 
Silent that youthful warrior stood, 
Silent he pointed to the flood 
All crimson with his country's blood ;' 
Then sent his last remaining dart, 
For answer, to the invader's heart. 

False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; 
The tyrant lived, the hero fell! 
Yet marked the Peri where he lay, 

And, when the rush of war was past, 
Swiftly decending on a ray 

Of morning light, she caught the last, 
Last glorious drop his heart had shed 
Before its free-born spirit fled. 

"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight, 
" My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 
Though foul are the drops that oft distill 

On the field of warfare, blood like this. 

For Tiiberty shed, so holy is, 
It would not stain the purest rill 

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss : 
Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere, 
A boon, an oftering heaven holds dear, 
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws 
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her 
cause." 

Thomas IVIoore. 



BELSHAZZAR. 

ELSHAZZAP is king! Belshazzar is lord! 
And athousand dark nobles all bend at 
his board ; 
Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, 

and a flood 
Of the wine that man loveth, runs redder than 

blood ; 
And the beauty that maddens the passions of 

earth—- 
Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth; 
And the crowds all shout. 
Till the vast roofs ring, 
"All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the 
king!" 

" Bring forth," cries the monarch, " the ves- 
sels of gold. 

Which my father tore down from the temples 
of old ; 

Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trum- 
pets are blown. 



To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of 

stone ; 
Bring forth ! " And before him the vessels all 

shine, 
And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the 

dark wine ; 

Whilst the trumpets bray, 
And the cymbals ring : 
" Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the 

king!" 




Bryan W. Procter. 

Now what conieth ? Look, look! without 

menace or call? 
Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, 

on the wall ? 
What pierceth the king, like the point of a 

dart ? 
What drives the bold blood from his cheek to 

his heart? 
" Chaldeans ! Magicians ! the letters expound !" 
They are read, and Belshazzar is dead on the 

ground ! 

Hark! The Persian is come 
On a conqueror's wing, 
And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the 

king. 

Bryan W. Procter. 

(Barry Cornwall.) 



2U0 POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



BR TJCE'S ADDRESS, 



fCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Now's the day, and now's the hour 

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, See the front of battle lour ; 

Welcome to your gory bed, See approach proud Edward's power - 
Or to glorious victory ! Edward ! chains and slavery ! 






T^ ^° ';tp^^y^ ^^ 







f^ J<^JL 4Ld\ oJ4;^ a. /iLjt 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



261 












^//TW 



Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor! Coward! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Caledonia ! on with me ! 



By oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sons in servile chains! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall, they sliall be free I 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 

Forward ! let us do or die ! 

Robert Burns. 



PATRIOTISM. 



BREATHES there the man, with soul so 
dead. 
Who never to himself hath said. 

This is my own, my native land ! 
Whose heart^hath ne'er within him burned. 
As home his footsteps he hath turned 

From wandering on a foreign strand? 
If such there breathe, go, mark hira well ; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 



High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; 
Despite those titles, power and pelf. 
The wretch, concentered all in self. 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung. 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



2G2 



POEMS OF PASSION" AXD ACTIOK. 



LOG HI EL'S WARmJfG. 

( Wizard .—Lochiel .) 
Wizard. 
Tf OCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
Ml When the I-owlands shall meet thee in 

battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in 

fight. 
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and 

crown ; 
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them 

down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the 

plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning 

of war. 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 
'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall 

await. 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at 

the gate. 
A steed comes at morning; no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the 

dead ; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall 

wave — 
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the 
brave. 

Lochiel. 
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling 

seer! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
Draw, dotard, around thine old wavering sight. 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Wizard. 
Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ! 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall 

be torn 1 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home In the dark rolling clouds of 

the north ? 
Lo ! the death-shot of foeman outspeeding, he 

rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on 

high! 
Ah ! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to 

the blast 



Those embers, like stars from the firmament 

cast? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully 

driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of 

heaven. 
O crested Lochiel, the peerless in might. 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' 

height. 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to 

burn; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where 

it stood. 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing 

brood. 

Lochiel. 

False Wizard, avaunt I I have marshalled my 

clan. 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are 

one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and 

their breath. 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of 

death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the 

shock I 
Let him dash his proud form like the wave on 

the rock I 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. 
When Albin her claymore indignantly^ draws; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory 

crowd, 
Glanronald the dauntless and Moray the proud. 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

Wizard. 
— Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day! 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
But man cannot cover what God would re- 
veal ; 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugi- 
tive king. 
Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath. 
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! 
Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from 

my sight ; 
Rise, rise I ye wild tempests, and cover his 

flight ! 
'Tis flnished. Their thunders are hushed on 
the moors ; 




POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



263 



CuUoden Is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? 
Where? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, for- 
lorn. 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding 
and torn ? 

Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; 

His death-bell is tolling ; O, Mercy ! dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony 
swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases 
to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the 
gale— 



LocJiiel. 
— Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the 

tale ; 
For never shall Albin a destiny meet 
So black wtth dishonor, so foul with re- 
treat. 
Though my perishing ranks should be strew- 
ed in their gore. 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten 

shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom re- 
mains. 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 
With his back to the field and his feet to the 

foe! 
And leaving in battle no blot on his name. 
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of 
fame. 

Thomas Campbell. 




" We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHK MOORE. 

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
^^ As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 



We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
The sods with our bayonets turning ; 

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 



2G4 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



No useless coffin inclosed his breast, 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was 
dead 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

"We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
his head. 
And we far away on the billow I 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of aur heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And Ave heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ? 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a 
stone. 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles AVolfe. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 
T midnight, in his guarded tent, 
.._.! The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent. 

Should tremble at his power ; 
In dreams, through camp and court he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams, his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring ; 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 

True as the steel of their tried blades, 
Heroes in heart and hand. 

There had the Persian's thousands stood, 

There had the glad earth drunk their blood 
On old Plataea's day ; 



And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on ; the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke, to hear his sentries shriek 
"To arms ! they come I the Greek 1 the Greek!" 
He woke, to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and saber stroke. 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as thunder loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
"Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 

God, and your native land ! " 
They fought, like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death ! 

Come to the mother's, when she feels. 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet song, and dance, and wine ; 
And thou art terrible ; the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier. 
And all we know, or dream, or fear. 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought ; 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought; 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



265 



Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 



Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collins. 



Bozzaris I with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time. 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee. 

Nor bade the dark hearse 'wave its plume. 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb ; 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy faith, and checks her tears ; 

And, she the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys, 
And even she who gave thee birth. 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh I 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; 
One of the few, the immortal names. 

That were not born to die! 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



ODE TO THE BRAVE, 

(Written in the year 1746.) 

OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall deck a sweeter sod 



a:n' ode. 

(In Imitation of Alcajus.) 

WHAT constitutes a State ? 
Not high-raised battlement or labored 
mound. 
Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets 
crowned ; 
Not bays and broad-armed ports. 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; 

Not starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to 
pride. 
No! men, high-minded men. 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 

Men, who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare 
maintain. 
Prevent the long-aimed blow, 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the 
chain : 
These constitute a State, 
And sovereign Law, that State's collected will 

O'er thrones and globes elate. 
Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks. 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding 
shrinks. 
Such was this heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore .' 

No more shall Freedom smile ? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? 

Since all must life resign, 
These sweet rewards, which decorate the 
brave, 
'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

I^IB William Jqnes, 



266 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 
FROM ''AMERICA:' 













^Xy y^cnt-v-e^ Ck^cO^ 'ZeT^c^^^ 



^ 



5^ 



^i>^-v-rfi^» 






^^^r^<t^ /ry ^^ 7^^ j^^!^^^^ 



/PZ-J^' 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



267 



THE TRAITOR. 

(From "LallaRookh.") 

^H for a tongue to curse the slave, 
Whose treason, like a deadly blight. 
Conies o'er the councils of the brave, 

And blasts them in their hour of might! 
May life's unblessed cup for him 
Be drugged with treacheries to the brim, 
With hopes, that but allure to fly, 

With J03^s, that vanish while he sips, 
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 

But turn to ashes on the lips : 
His country's curse, his children's shame; 
Outcast of virtue, peace and fame; 
May he, at last, with lips of flame. 
On the parched desert thirsting die. 
While lakes, that shine in mockery nigh. 
Are fading off", untouched, untasted. 
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
And, when from earth his spirit flies. 

Just Prophet, let the damned one dwell 
Full in the sight of Paradise, 

Beholding heaven, and feeling hell! 

Thomas Moore. 



TEE BARD. 

(The following: Ode is founded on a tradition current in 
Wales, that Edward I. , when he completed the conquest 
of tliat country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his 
hands to be put to death.) 

* * M)UIN seize thee, ruthless king ! 

J^ Confusion on thy banners wait ; 
Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing, 

They mock the air with idle state! 
Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail, 
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant! shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 
P'rom Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears." 
Such were the sounds tiiat o'er the crested 
pride 
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay. 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 
He wound with toilsome march his long 
array ; 
•Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless 

trance ; 
"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his 
quivering lance. 

L 2. 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 

Jlobed in the sable garb of woe. 
With haggard eye, the poet stpod; 



Loose his beard and hoary hair 
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air; 
And with a master's hand and prophet's fire, 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
" Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave 
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
O'er thee, oh king, their hundred arms they 

wave, 
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs 

breathe ; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's 

lay. 

I. 3. 

" Cold is Cadwallo's tongue 

That hushed the stormy main ; 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed ; 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped 

head. 
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie. 

Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale ; 
Far, far aloof, the affrighted ravens sail, 
The famished eagle screams and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 

Dear as the light which visits these sad 
eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my 
heart, 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries. 
No more I weep. They do not sleep ; 

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
I see them sit ; they linger yet, 

Avengers of their native land ; 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of 
thy line. 

II. 1. 
" Weave the warp and weave the woof, 
The winding sheet of Edward's race ; 
Give ample room and verge enough 

The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night, 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs 

that ring. 
Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled 
mate, 
From thee be born who o'er th^ country 
bangs 



2G8 

The scourge oflieaven ! AVhat terrors round 
him wait! 
Amazement in his van, with flight combined. 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude be- 
hind. 

II. 2. 
"Mighty victor, mighty lord, 
Low on his funeral couch he lies! 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr 
blows, 
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm, 
In gallant trim the golden vessel goes. 

Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the 
helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway. 




No pitying heart, no eye afford 

A tear to grace his obsequies ; 
Is the sable warrior fled ?' 
Thy son is gone ; he rests among the dead. 
The swarm that in thy noontide beam were 
bprn? 



- Kobed in the sabie garb of woe, 
With haggard eye the poet 
stood." 

That hushed in grim repose expects his 
evening prey. 

II. 3. 

*' Fill high the sparkling bowl. 

The rich repast prepare ; 
Heft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. 

Close by a regal chair 
Fell thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon the baffled guest. 

Heard ye the din of battle bray, 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 
Long years of havoc urge their destined 
course, 
And through the kindred squadrons mow 
their way. 
Ye towers of Julius ! London's lasting shame ! 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame. 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 
Above, below, the rose of snow. 

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread ; 
The bristled Boar, with infant gore. 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed 

loom. 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his 
doom. 

III. 1. 
"Edward, lo! to sudden fate, 

(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun) 
Half of thy heart we consecrate ; 

(The web is wove ; the work is done) 
Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unblest, unpitied here to mourn. 
In yon bright tract, that fires the western 

skies. 
They melt, they vanish, from my eyes. 
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's 
height, 
Descending slow, their glittering skirts 
unroll ! 
Visions of glory! spare my aching sight! 
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail ; 
All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, 
hail! 

III. 2. 
" Girt with many a baron bold; 

Sublime their starry fronts they rear, 
And gorgeous dames and statesmen old 

In bearded majesty appear ; 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line, 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face. 
Attempered sweet to virgin grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air ! 
What strains of vocal transport round her 
play! 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ! 
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings. 
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored 
wings. 
17 



III. 3. 

" The verse adorn again. 

Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
And truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. 
In buskined measures move 
Pale grief, and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
A voice as of the cherub-choir 
Gales from blooming Eden bear. 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear. 
That lost in long futurity expire. 
Fond, impious man ! think'st thou yon san- 
guine cloud. 
Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb 
of day ? 
Tomorrow he repairs the golden flood, 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me ; with joy I see 

The different doom our fates assign : 
Be thine Despair and sceptered Care ; 

To triumph and to die are mine ! " 
He spoke ; and, headlong from the moun- 
tain's height, 
Deep in the roaring tide, he plunged to end- 
less night. 

Thomas Gray. 



THE AMEBIC AJf FLAG. 



MHEN Freedom, 
ID height. 



from her mountain 



Unfurled her standard to the air. 
She tore the azure robe of night. 

And set the stars of glory there ; 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies. 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light ; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud, 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud. 

And see the iightning-lances driven 
When stride the warriors of the storm. 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven. 
Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 
To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
To ward away the battle-stroke. 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 



270 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



Like rainbows on the clouds of war, 
The harbingers of victory : 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high, 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet ; 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn ; 
And, as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from thy glance. 
And when the cannon mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud. 
And gory sabers rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
There shall thy meteor glances glow^ 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
VVlien death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack. 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er thy closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! 

By angel hands to valor given ! 
Thy stars have lit the w elkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe, but falls before us. 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 
Joseph Rodman Dkake. 



THE STAR-SPAJVGLEB BAJVJ^ER. 

§H say ! can you see, by the dawn's early 
light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's 
last gleaming, 
AVhose broad stripes and bright stars, through 
the perilous flght, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gal- 
lantly streaming? 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs burst- 
ing- in air. 



Gave proof, through the night, that our flag 

was still there. 
Oh, say! does that star-spangled banner yet 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the 

brave ? 

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists 
of the deep. 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread si- 
lence reposes. 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the tower- 
ing steep. 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now dis- 
closes ? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's 
first beam. 

In full glory reflected, now shines on the 
stream. 

'Tis the star-spangled banner — oh, long may it 
wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the 
brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly 
swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's con- 
fusion 

A home and a country should leave us no 
more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul foot- 
steps' pollution ! 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of flight or the gloom of the 
grave ; 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall 
wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the 
brave ! 

Oh ! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved home and the war's 

desolation ; 
Blessed with victory and peace, may the 

heaven-rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and pre- 
served it a nation ! 
Thus conquer we must, when our cause it is 

just. 
And this be our motto : " In God is our 

trust ! " 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the 

brave! Fkakcis Scott Key. 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



271 



MABYLAJ^D. 

(Written when the whole country, North and Sourh, was 
anxiously awaiting the action of the doubtful states, this 
poem, one of the finest lyrics the War produced, has lost 
none of its beauty as a passionate appeal, a stirring call to 
arms. The allusion in the fifth stanza ("A new Key") 
is to the author of "The Star-Spangled Banner," who 
was a Mary lander.) 

J^HE despot's heel is on thy shore, 
F Maryland ! 

His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That liecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Hark to thy wandering son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My mother state : to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust ; 
Remember Howard's war-like thrust ; 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng, 
That stalks with Liberty along. 
And gives a new Key to thy song, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain ! 

Maryland I 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 



She meets her sisters on the plain ; 
Sic semper^ 'tis the proud refrain. 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo I there surges forth a shriek, 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland I 
Better the fire upon thee roll. 
Better the blade, the shot, the bowl. 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The old Line's bugle, fife and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
She breathes ! she burns ! she'll come, she'll 
come ! 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

James Ryder Randall. 



MUSIC IJV CAMP. 

n^WO armies covered hill and plain, 
If Where Rappahannock's waters 
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents. 

In meads of heavenly azure. 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its hid embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to quiver. 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now where circling hills looked down, 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunlight slanted ; 



272 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



"When on the fervent air there came 

A strain, now rich, now tender ; 
The music seemed itself aflame 

With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, 

Till, margined by its pebbles. 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And one was gray with " Rebels." 

Then all was still ; and then the band. 
With movement light and tricksy. 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand 
Reverberate with " Dixie." 

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 

Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 

With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 

The trumpet pealed sonorous. 
And " Yankee Doodle " was the strain 

To which the shores gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 

To kiss the shining pebbles ; 
Loud shrieked the swarming boys in blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang; 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles ; 

All silent now the Yankees stood. 
All silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing. 
So deeply " Home, Sweet Home" had stirred 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or blue or gray, the soldier sees. 

As by the wand of fairy. 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, 

The cabin on the prairie. 

Or cold or warm, his native skies 
Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 



Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 
His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain. 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art. 
Expressed in simplest numbers, 

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 
Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines, 

That bright celestial creature. 
Who still, mid war's embattled lines. 

Gave this one touch of nature. 

John Raxdolph Thoipson. 



MOJfTEREY. 
"PW^ were not many, we who stood 
W Before the iron storm that day, 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have been with us at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray ; 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round them wailed 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on, still on, our column kept 

Through walls of fire its withering way ; 
Where fell the dead, the living stepped. 
Still charging on the guns that swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past. 
And, braving full the murderous blast. 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave, 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many, we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day. 
But who of us has not confessed 
He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey ? 

Charles Fenno Hoffman. 



I 



J 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 273 

FROM ''THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRUCAm/' 
/ 

^J At. OttiAi^ ^i/'A.cj- Sf<firih <^>t Z^ Ac^f^ 
^(^€^ Act /dc£ ^^^ •jAi^^JftJL cr^^tL^Y 



ARLIiN'GTOK. 

Y^jCS^ broken column, reared in air, The combat o'er, the death-hug done, 

F To him who made our country great. In summer's blaze, or winter's snows, 

Can almost cast its shadow where They keep the truce at Arlington. 
The victims of a grand despair 

In long, long lines of death await ^nd almost lost in myriad graves 

The last loud trump, the Judgment sun Of those who gained the unequal fight, 

Which comes for all, and soon or late ^^e mounds that hide Confederate braves. 

Will come for those at Arlington. y^\^o reck not how the north wind raves, 

In dazzling day or dimmest night. 
O'er those who lost and those who won. 

In that vast sepulchre repose Death holds no parley which was right— 

The thousands reaped from every fray ; Jehovah judges Arlington. 
The men in blue who once uprose 

In battle-front to smite their foes. The dead had rest ; the dove had peace 

The Spartan bands who wore the gray. Brooded o'er both with equal wings. 



274 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



To both had come that great surcease, 
The last omnipotent release 
From all the world's delirious stings, 

To bugle deaf, and signal gun, 
They slept like heroes of old Greece^ 
Beneath the glebe at Arlington. 

And in the spring's benignant reign. 

The sweet May woke her harp of pines, 
Teaching her choir a thrilling strain 
Of jubilee to land and main. 
She danced in emerald down the lines. 

Denying largess bright to none ; 
She saw no difference in the signs 
That told who slept at Arlington. 

She gave her grasses and her showers 
To all alike who dreamed in dust; 



Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers 
Amid the jasmine buds and flowers, 
And piped with an impartial trust. 
Waifs of the air and liberal sun. 
Their guileless glees were kind and just 
To friend and foe at Arlington. 

And 'mid the generous spring there came 

Some women of the land who strove 
To make this funeral field of fame 
Glad as the May God's altar flame. 
With rosy wreaths of mutual love ; 
Unmindful who had lost or won, 
They scorned the jargon of a name — 
No North, no South, at Arlington. 

James Ryder Randall. 



Ilj 



riMDICATIOJf. 

ERE I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal, I should 
bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a murmur ; but the sen- 
tence of the law which delivers my body to the executioner will, through the minis- 
try of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to consign my character to obloquy; 
for there must be guilt somewhere : whether in the sentence of the court, or in the catas- 
trophe, posterity must determine. The man dies, but his memory lives. That mine may not 
perish, that it may live in the respect of my countrymen, I seize upon this opportunity to vin- 
dicate myself from some of the charges against me. 



Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man attaint my mem- 
ory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's liberty and 
independence, or that I could have become the pliant minion of power in the oppression or 
the miseries of my countrymen. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the 
same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant ; in the dignity of freedom I would have 
fought upon the threshold of my country, and her enemies should enter only by passing over 
my lifeless corpse. Am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to 
the vengeance of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bondage of the grave, only to 
give my countrymen their rights, and my country her independence, am I to be loaded with 
calumny, and not to be suffered to resent or repel it ? No I God forbid ! 



Be ye patient ; I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my silent grave ; my 
lamp of life is nearly extinguished; my race is run; the grave opens to receive me, and I 
sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world : it is 
the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph ; for as no one who knows my mo- 
tives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and 
me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and 
other men can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place among the 
nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done. 

Robert Emmet. 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



275 



CAVALRY SOJ^G. 

(From "Alice of Monmouth.'") 

§ITR good steeds snuff the evening air, 
Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; 
The foeman's tires are twinkling there ; 
He leaps to hear our sabers jingle. 
halt! 
Each carbine sends its whizzing ball! 
Now cling! clang! forward all, 
Into the fight ! 



Dash on beneath the smoking dome : 

Through level lightnings gallop nearer! 
One look to Heaven ! No thoughts of home : 
The guidons that we bear are dearer. 
charge! 
Cling ! clang ! forward all ! 
Heaven help those whose horses fall : 
Cut left and right ! 

They flee before our fierce attack ! 

They fall ! they spread in broken surges. 
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, 

And leave the foeman to his dirges. 

WHEEL ! 

The bugles sound the swift recall: 
Cling! clang! backward all! 

Home, and good-night ! 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

BATTLE-HYMJf OF THE 

REPUBLIC. 

J^ INE eyes have seen the glory of the com- 

ifil ing of the Lord ; 

He is trampling out the vintage where the 

grapes of wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his ter- 
rible swift sword ; 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hun- 
dred circling camps ; 

They have builded him an altar in the even- 
ing dews and damps ; 

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim 
and flaring lamps ; 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished 

rows of steel : 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so my 

grace with you shall deal ; " 



Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the ser- 
pent with his heel. 

Since God is marching on. 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall 

never call retreat ; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his 

judgment-seat; 
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him ; be 

jubilant, my feet! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 

across the sea, ^ 

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures 

you and me ; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to 
make men free, 

While God is marching on. 

Mrs, Julia Ward Howe. 




Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. 



AS BY THE SHORE AT BREAK 

OF day:' 

^ S by the shore, at break of day, 
^1 A vanquished chief expiring lay, 
Upon the sands, with broken sword, 

He traced his farewell to the fi'ee ; 
And there the last unfinished word 

He dying wrote, was '• Liberty !" 

At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell 
Of him who thus for freedom fell ; 
The words he wrote ere evening came. 

Were covered by the sounding sea ; 
So pass away the cause and name 

Of him who dies for liberty ! 

Thomas Moore. 



270 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



THE PATRIOTS PASSWORD. 

(On theachierementof Arnold de Winkelried at the battle of Sempach, in which the Swiss secured thefreedomof 
their country, against llie power of Austria, in the fourteenth century.) 



* '(iffj AKE way for liberty !'' he cried,— 

\vl Made way for liberty, and died. 
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 
A living wall, a human wood ; 
A wall, where every conscious stone 
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown, 
A rampart all assaults to bear, 
Till time to dust their frames should wear ; 
A w'ood, like that enchanted grove 
In which with friends Rinaldo strove, 



Bright as the breakers' splendors run 
Along the billows to the sun. 
Opposed to these, a hovering band 
Contended for their fatherland ; 
Peasants, whose new-found strength 

broke 
For manly necks the ignoble yoke, 
And beat their fetters into swords. 
On equal terms to light their lords ; 
And what insurgent rage had gained^ 



had 




'Make way for liberty !' he cried, — 
Made way for liberty, and died." 



Where every silent tree possessed 
A spirit imprisoned in its breast. 
Which the first stroke of coming strife 
Might startle into hideous life ; 
So still, so dense, the Austrians stood, 
A living wall, a human w ood. 
Impregnable their front appears, 
All horrent with projected spears, 
Whose polished points before them shine, 
From flank to flank, one brilliant line. 



In many a mortal fray maintained. 
Marshaled once more, at Freedom's call. 
They came to conquer or to fall. 
Where he w ho conquered, he who fell, 
Was deemed a dead, a living Tell ; 
Such virtue had that patriot breathed. 
So to the soil his soul bequeathed, 
That wheresoe'erhis arrows flew, 
Heroes in his own likeness grew, 
And warriors sprang from every sod 




POEMS OF PASSIOK AND ACTION. 



277 



Which his awakening footstep trod. 

And now the work of life and death 

Hung on the passing of a breath ; 

The fire of conflict burned within, 

The battle trembled to begin ; 

Yet while the Austrians held their ground, 

Point for assault was nowhere found ; 

Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, 

The unbroken line of lances blazed ; 

That line 'twere suicide to meet, 

And perish at their tyrants' feet. 

How could they rest within their graves 

To leave their homes the haunts of slaves ? 

Would they not feel their children tread, 

With clanking chains, above their head ? 

It must not be ; this day, this hour 

Annihilates the invader's power ; 

All Switzerland is in the field, 

She will not fly, she cannot yield. 

She must not fall ; her better fate 

Here gives her an immortal date. 

Few were the numbers she could boast, 

Yet every freeman was a host, 

And felt as 'twere a secret known, 

That one should turn the scale alone, 

AVhile each unto himself was he 

On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one indeed ; 

Behold him ! Arnold Winkelried ! 

There sounds not to the trump of fame 

The echo of a nobler name. 

Unmarked he stood amid the throng. 

In rumination deep and long. 

Till you might see, with sudden grace. 

The very thought come o'er his face. 

And by the motion of his form. 

Anticipate the bursting storm, 

And by the uplifting of his brow. 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 

But 'twas no sooner thought than done ; 

The field was in a moment won. 

" Make way for liberty!" he cried ; 

Tlien ran, with arms extended wide, 

As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 

Ten spears he swept within his grasp ; 

" Make way for liberty!" he cried ; 

Their keen points crossed from side to side ; 

He bowed amidst them, like a tree. 

And thus made way for liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly ; 

" Make way for liberty ! " they cry. 

And through the Austrian phalanx dart. 

As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart, 

While, instantaneous as his fall. 



Rout, ruin, panic, seized them all. 
An earthquake could not overflow 
A city with a surer blow ; 
Thus Switzerland again was free ; 
Thus death made way for liberty. 

James Montgomery. 



THE HARP THAT OJYCE 

THROUGH TARA'S 

HALLS, 

fHE harp that once through Tara's halls 
The soul of music shed. 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, 

As if that soul were fled ! 
So sleeps the pride of former days. 

So glory's chill is o'er ; 
And hearts, that once beat high for praise, 
Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone, that breaks at night, 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes. 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart, indignant, breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 

Thomas Moore. 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 

(Written on the occasion of the removal of the remains 
of the Kentucky soldiers who fell at Buena Vista to their 
native state.) 

fHE muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on Life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few ; 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round. 
The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind ; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn or screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust; 
Their plumed heads are bowed : 



27d 



POEMS OF PASSION AKD ACTION. 



Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud ; 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow ; 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed. 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout, are past. 
Not war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain. 

Comes down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

"Was " Victory, or death !" 

Full many a mother's breatb has wept 

O'er Angostura's plain, 
And long the pitying sky has swept 

Above its mouldered slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's fiigbt. 

Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
Alone now wakes each solemn height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there. 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air : 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 
She claims from War its richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus, 'neath their parent turf they rest. 

Far from the gory field. 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield. 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulcher. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 

Dear as the blood ye gave I 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 



Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps. 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished year hath flown, 

The story how ye fell ; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight. 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Can dim one ray of holy light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 

Theodore O'IIara. 



"YES, ' TIS JVOT HELM jYOR 

feather:' 

YES, 'tis not helm nor feather, 
For ask yon despot, whether 
His plumed bands 
Could bring such hands 
And hearts as ours together. 

Leave pomps to those who need 'em. 
Give man but heart and freedom, 

And proud he braves 

The gaudiest slaves 
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. 

The sword may pierce the beaver, 
Stone walls in time may sever, 

'Tis mind alone, 

Worth steel and stone. 
That keeps men free forever. 

Thomas Moore. 



THE DEATH OF MARMlOJs". 

(From " Marmion," Canto VI.) 

fAINTING, down on earth he sunk, 
Supported by the trembling monk. 

With fruitless labor, Clara bound, 

And strove to staunch the gushing w^ound ; 

The monk, with unavailing cares. 

Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 

Ever, he said that close and near, 

A lady's voice was in his ear, 

And that the priest he could not hear 

For that she ever simg : 
" In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of 
the dying !" 

So the notes rung. 




POEMS 01^ PASSlOK AND ACTIOK. 



270 



Avoid thee, friend : with cruel hand. 
Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! 
O look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer's grace divine, 

O think on faith and bliss ! 
By many a death-bed I have been, 
And many a sinner's parting seen, 

But never aught like this." 
The war, that for a space did fail, 
Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale, 



And " Stanley !" Avas the cry ; 
A light on Marmion's visage spread. 

And fired his glazing eye ; 
With dying hand, above his head. 
He shook the fragment of his blade. 

And shouted : *' Victory ! 
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ;" 
Where the last words of M arm ion. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



FEOM OEIGIJVJL MAJVUSCRIPT OF "MARMIOJV:' 



V777 



/4M^ 



H^ 



/iu^uiyyi^ dectc:^^ AMiyHr /H\jl /VWMj^^ta::^ 4^^i€nA/^ 



COJ^Q VEST OF JER USALEM BY THE CR USADERS. 

(From "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.") 

JERUSALEM has derived some reputation from the number and importance of her memor- 
• able sieges. It was not till after a long and obstinate contest that Babylon and Rome 
could prevail against the obstinacy of the people, the craggy ground that might supersede 
the necessity of fortifications, and the walls and towers that would have fortified the most 
accessible plain. These obstacles were diminished in the age of the crusades. The bulwarks 
had been completely destroyed and imperfectly restored : the Jews, their nation and worship, 
were forever banished; but nature is less changeable than man, and the site of Jerusalem, 
though somewhat softened and somewhat removed, was still strong against the assaults of an 
enemy. By the experience of a recent siege, and a three years' possession, the Saracens of 
Egypt had been taught to discern, and in some degree to remedy, the defects of a place 
which religion as well as honor forbade them to resign. Aladin or Iftikhar, the caliph's 
lieutenant, was Intrusted with the defence; his policy strove to restrain the native 
Christians by the dread of their own ruin and that of the holy sepulchre ; to animate 
the Moslems by the assurance of temporal and eternal rewards. His garrison is said 
to have consisted of forty thousand Turks and Arabians; and if he could muster twenty 
thousand of the Inhabitants, it must be confessed that the besieged were more numer- 



2S0 POEMS OF PASSIOK AND ACTION. 

ous than the besieging army. Had the diminished strength and numbers of the Latins 
allowed them to grasp the whole circumference of four thousand yards — about two 
English miles and a half— to what useful purpose should they have descended into the 
valley of Ben Himmon and torrent of Cedron, or approached the precipices of the 
south and east, from whence they had nothing either to hope or fear? Their siege was more 
reasonably directed against the northern and western sides of the city. Godfrey of Bouillon 
erected his standard on the first swell of Mount Calvary ; to the left, as far as St. Stephen's 
gate, the line of attack was continued by Tancred and the two Roberts ; and Count Raymond 
established his quarters from the citadel to the foot of Mount Sion, which was no longer in- 
cluded within the precincts of the city. On the fifth day the crusaders made a general as- 
sault, in the fanatic hope of battering down the walls without engines, and of scaling them 
without ladders. By dint of brutal force, they burst the first barrier, but they were 
driven back with shame and slaughter to the camp : the influence of vision and prophecy was 
deadened by the too frequent abuse of those pious stratagems, and time and labor were found 
to be the only means of victory. The time of the siege was indeed fulfilled in forty days, but 
they were forty days of calamity and anguish. A repetition of the old complaint of famine 
may be imputed in some degree to the voracious or disorderly appetite of the Franks, but the 
stony soil of Jerusalem is almost destitute of water; the scanty springs and hasty torrents 
were dry in the summer season ; nor was the thirst of the besiegers relieved, as in the city, by 
the artificial supply of cisterns and aqueducts. The circumjacent country is equally destitute 
of trees for the uses of shade or building, but some large beams were discovered in a cave by the 
crusaders : a wood near Sichem, the enchanted grove of Tasso, was cut down : the necessary 
timber was transported to the camp by the vigor and dexterity of Tancred ; and the engines 
were framed by some Genoese artists, who had fortunately landed in the harbor of Jafl'a. 
Two movable turrets were constructed at the expense and in the stations of the Duke of Lor- 
raine and the Count of Tholouse, and rolled forwards with devout labor, not to the most ac- 
cessible, but to the most neglected parts of the fortification. Raymond's tower was reduced 
to ashes by the fire of the besieged, but his colleague was more vigilant and successful ; the 
enemies were driven by his archers from the rampart ; the drawbridge was let down ; and on 
a Friday, at three in the afternoon, the day and hour of the Passion, Godfrey of Bouillon stood 
victorious on the walls of Jerusalem. His example was followed on every side by the emula- 
tion of valor ; and about four hundred and sixty years after the conquest of Omar, the holy 
city was rescued from the Mohammedan yoke. In the pillage of public and private wealth, 
the adventurers had agreed to respect the exclusive property of the first occupant; and the 
spoils of the great mosque — seventy lamps and massy vases of gold and silver — rewarded the 
diligence and displayed the generosity of Tancred. A bloody sacrifice was offered by his mis- 
taken votaries to the God of the Christians : resistance might provoke, but neither age nor 
sex could mollify their implacable rage ; they indulged themselves three days in a promis- 
cuous massacre, and the infection of the dead bodies produced an an epidemical disease. Af- 
ter seventy thousand Moslems had been put to the sword, and the harmless Jews had been 
burnt in their synagogue, they could still reserve a multitude of captives whom interest or 
lassitude persuaded them to spare. Of these savage heroes of the cross, Tancred alone be- 
trayed some sentiments of compassion ; yet we may praise the more selfish lenity of Raymond, 
who granted a capitulation and safe conduct to the garrison of the citadel. The holy sepul- 
chre was now free ; and the bloody victors prepared to accomplish their vow. Bareheaded 
and barefoot, with contrite hearts, and in an humble posture, they ascended the hill of Calvary 
amidst the loud anthems of the clergy; kissed the stone which had covered the Savior of the 
world, and bedewed with tears of joy and penitence the monument of their redemption. 

Edward Gibbon, 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



281 



TWILIGHT OJ^ THE BATTLE- 
FIELD. 

(From "Marmion," Canto VI.) 

BY this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
For still the Scots, around their king, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor vanward wing, 

Where Huntly and where Home ? 
Oh, for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

Which to King Charles did come. 
When Rowland brave, and Oliver, 
And every paladin and peer 

On Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
To quit the plunder of the slain, 
And turn the doubtful day again. 

While yet on Flodden side. 
Afar, the Royal Standard flies, 
And round it toils and bleeds, and dies 

Our Caledonian pride! 
In vain the wish, for, far away. 
While spoil and havoc mark their way, 
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray. 



But as they left the darkening heath, 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
The English shafts in volleys hailed. 
In headlong charge their horse assailed ; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep 

That fought around their king. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow. 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go. 
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow. 

Unbroken was the ring; 
The stubborn spearmen still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood. 
Each stepping where his comrade stood 

The moment that he fell. 
No thought was there of dastard flight ; 
Linked in the serried phalanx tight, 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight. 

As fearlessly and well ; 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded king. 
Then skillful Surrey's wise commands 
Led back from strife his shattered bands ; 

And from the charge they drew. 
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands. 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his foemen know ; 



Their king, their lords, their mightiest, low, 

They melted from the field, as snow. 

When streams are swoln and south winds 

blow, 
Dissolves in silent dew. 

Sm Walter Scott. 



THE DESTB UCTIOjY OF SEJV- 

JVACHERIB. 

I. 

f^HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on 

F the fold. 

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 

gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars 

on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 
Galilee. 

n. 
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is 

green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were 

seen: 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn 

hath blown. 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and 
strown. 

III. 
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on 

the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he 

pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and 

chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for- 
ever grew still ! 

IV. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all 

wide. 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of 

his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 

turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating 

surf. 

V. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on 

his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners 

alone. 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 



POEMS OF PAISSION^ AND ACTION. 



283 



And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 

wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 

sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 

Lord! 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 



lYBY. 

MTOW glory to the Lord of hosts, from 

J<®1 whom all glories are ! 

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry 

of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music 

and of dance. 
Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, 

oh pleasant land of France ! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Kochelle, proud 

city of the waters. 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy 

mourning daughters ; 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in 

our joy. 
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who 

wrought thy walls annoy. 
Hurrah! huiTah! a single field hath turned 

the chance of war ; 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Na- 
varre. 



Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at 

the dawn of day. 
We saw the army of the League drawn out 

in long array. 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its 

rebel peers, 
And AppenzePs stout infantry, and Egmont's 

Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the 

curses of our land ! 
And dark Mayenne was in their midst, a trun- 
cheon in his hand! 
And as we looked on them, we thought of 

Seine's impurpled flood. 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled 

with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules 

the fate of war. 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of 

Navarre. 



The king is come to marshal us in all his ar- 
mor dressed. 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon 

his gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in 

his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance 

was stern and high. 
Eight graciously he smiled on us, as rolled 

from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout : " God 

save our lord the King I" 
" And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full 

well he may. 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody 

fray. 
Press where ye see my white plume shine 

amidst the ranks of war. 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of 

Navarre !" 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the 
mingled din 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and 
roaring culverin ! 

The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint 
Andre's plain. 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 
Almayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentle- 
men of France, 

Charge for the golden lilies— upon them with 
the lance ! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou- 
sand spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close behind 
the snow-white crest; 

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, 
like a guiding star. 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the hel- 
met of Navarre. 

Now, God be praised! the day is ours ! May- 
enne hath turned his rein, 

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter, the Flemish 
count is slain. 

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds be- 
fore a Biscay gale ; 

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and 
flags, and cloven mail, 

And then we thought on vengeance, and all 
along our van, 

"E-emember St. Bartholomew!" was passed 
from man to man ; 



284 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 




But out spake gentle Henry ; " No French- 
man is my foe ; 

Down, down with every foreigner, but let 
your brethren go." 

Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friend- 
ship or in war, 

As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier 
of Navarre ? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who 
fought for France to-day, 



And many a lordly banner God gave them for 
a prey ; 

But we of the Religion have borne us best in 
fight. 

And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cor- 
net white. 

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white 
hath ta'en, 

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag 
of false Lorraine. 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



281 



Up with it high ! unfurl it wide ! that all the 

host may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house 

which wrought his church such woe ; 
Then on the ground while trumpets sound 

their loudest points of war, 
Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for 

Henry of Navarre. 

Ho, maidens of Vienna ! Ho, matrons of Lu- 
cerne ! 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those 
who never shall return ! 

Ho, Philip ! send for charity thy Mexican pis- 
toles. 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy 
poor spearmen's souls ! 

Ho, gallant nobles of the League, look that 
your arms be bright ! 

Ho, burghers of Ste. Genevieve, keep watch 
and ward to-night ; 

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God 
hath raised the slave, 

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and 
valor of the brave. 

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all 
glories are, 

And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry 
of Navarre. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 



SOJ\rG OF THE GREEK POET. 

(From "Don Juan," Canto III.) 

fHE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 
I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis : 
18 



And ships, by thousands, lay below. 

And men in nations ; — all were his I 
He counted them at break of day — 
And w^hen the sun set, where were they ? 

And where are they and where art thou, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

What, silence still ? and silent all ? 

Ah no ! — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, "Let one living head. 
But one, arise, — we come, we come! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup With Samian wine! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Phyrrhic dance as yet ; 

Where is the Phyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 

The nobler and the manlier one ? 
You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ? 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served— but served Polycrates— 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 
Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 



286 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine 
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 

Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as tlie Doric mothers bore ; 

And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 

The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells ; 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid. 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sumura's marbled steep. 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine I 

George Gordon, Lord Byrox. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE 

GOOD XEWS FROM 

GHEXT TO AIX. 

SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all 
three. 

" Good speed !" cried the watch as the gate- 
bolts undrew, 

" Speed I" echoed the wall to us galloping 
through. 

Behind shut the postern, the light sank to 
rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 



Not a word to each other ; we kept the great 
pace. 

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never chang- 
ing our place ; 

I turned in my saddle, and made its girths 
tight, 



Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique 

right, 
Re-buckled the check-strap, chained slacker 

the bit. 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas a moonset at starting ; but while we 

drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned 

clear ; 
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At Duffield 'twas morning as plain as could 

be ; 
And from Mecheln church steeple we heard 

the half chime ; 
So Joris broke silence with: "Yet there is 

time !" 

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black every 

one. 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its 

spray. 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp 
ear bent back 

For my voice, and the other pricked out on 
his back; 

And one eye's black intelligence, ever that 
glance 

O'er its white edge at me, its own master, as- 
kance ; 

And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye 
and anon 

His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris : 

*' Stay spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in 

her, 
We'll remember at Aix — " for one heard the 

quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and 

staggering knees. 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and 

shrank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the 

sky; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stub' 

ble like chaff; 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



287 



Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang And with circles of red for his eye-socket's 

white, rim. 

And " Gallop,'* gasped Joris, " for Aix is in 

sight." Then I cast loose my bufF-coat, each holster 

let fall, 

" How they'll greet us !" and all in a "moment Shook off my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 

his roan Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 



^^" 



t?>" 








'•At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every one." 



Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse 

stone ; without peer. 

And there was my Roland to bear the whole Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any 

weight sound, bad or good. 

Of the news which alone could save Aix from Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and 

her fate, stood. 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the 

t)rim, And all I remember is friends flocking round, 



288 POEMS OF PASSION^ AND ACTION. 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the Which, the burgesses voted by common con- 
ground ; sent, 

And no voice but was praising this TJoland of Was no more than his due who brought good 
mine, news from Ghent. 

As I poured down his throat our last measure Robert Bkowxixg. 

of wine, 



'5^ ft/ Hi.y fyMut), tM^^iiuut ilHfC M4^ rCiML Hn4^ fUulr^j^i, 
V^^^ M^rfHcl^ 4^ l^diU hUx^ h^fu^ yirri hUiD A^^ ^^^W 



THE FALL OF WOLSEY. 

(Prom ''Kills Henry VIII.," Act III., Scene 2.) 

fAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my Bur far beyond my depth ; my high-blown 
greatness 1 pride 

This is the state of man : To-day he puts At length broke under me ; and now has left 

forth me, 

The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow bios- Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 

soras. Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 

And bears his blushing honors thick upon Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate 

him : ye ; 

The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost ; I feel my heart newopen'd : O, how wretched 

And, when he thinks, good easy man, full Is that poor man that hangs on princes' fa- 

surely vors ! 

His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, There is betwixt that smile we would aspire 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, to, 

Like little wanton boys that swim on blad- That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 

ders. More pangs and fears than wars or women 
This many summers in a sea of glory ; have, 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



289 



A ad when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. — 

Enter Cromwell, amazedly. 
Why, how now, Cromwell ? 
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 
Wol. What, amaz'd 

At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder, 
A great man should decline? Nay, an you 

weep, 
I am fallen indeed. 
Crom. How does your grace ? 
WoL Why, well ; 

Never so truly happy, my good Crom \v ell. 
I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 
A still and quiet conscience. The king has 

cur'd me, 
I humbly thank his grace; and from these 

shoulders. 
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken 
A load would sink a navy, too much honour : 
O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden, 
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. 

•5f * * * * 

Cromwell, I charge thee fling away ambition; 
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then, 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't? 
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that 

hate thee ; 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. 
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear 

not: 
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
Thy God's and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, O 

Cromwell, 
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king. 
And, — pr'ythee, lead me in : 
There take an inventory of all I have. 
To the last penny : 'tis the king's : my robe, 
And my integrity to heaven, is all 
I dare now call mine own. 0, Cromwell, 

Cromwell, 
Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

William Shakspere. 



FEAR. 

(From Macbeth, Act II., Scene 2.) 

/Ijpj ACB. There's one did laugh in his sleep, 
XW and one cried, murder! 
That they did wake each other ; I stood and 
heard them: 



But they did say their prayers, and address'd 

them 
Again to sleep. 

Lady M. There are two lodg'd together. 

Macb. One cried, God bless us! and, ylme'n, 

the other. 
As they had seen me, with these hangmen's 

hands. 
Listening their fear, I could not say, amen, 
When they did say, God bless us. 
Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. 

Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce 

amen ? 
I had most need of blessing, and amen 
Stuck in my throat. 

Lady M. These deeds must not be thought 
After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 
Macb, Methought, I heard a voice cry, Sleep 

no more! 
Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep; 
Sleep, that knits up the raveWd sleeve of care. 
The death of each day''s life, sore labour''s bath, 
Balm of hurt mindsy greai nature'' s second 

course. 
Chief nourisher in lifers feast ; — 
Lady M. What do you mean ? 

Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more ! to all the 

house : 
Glamis hath murdered sleep ; and therefore Caw- 
dor 
Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no 

more ! 
Lady M. Who was it that thus cried ? Why, 

worthy thane, 
You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
So brainsickly of things : — Go, get some water, 
And wash this filthy witness from your 

hand. — 
Why did you bring these daggers from the 

place? 
They must lie there : Go, carry them ; and 

smear 
The sleepy grooms with blood. 
Macb. I'll go no more : 

I am afraid to think what I have done ; 
Look on't again, I dare not. 
Lady M. Infirm of purpose ! 

Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the 

dead. 
Are but as pictures : 'tis the eye of childhood, 
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal. 
For it must seem their guilt. 

William Shakspere. 



290 



POEMS 01" PASSION AND ACTION. 
THE SHIPWRECK. 

(From "Don Juan," Canto II.) 



fHEN rose from sea to sky the wild fare- 
well- 
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the 
brave, — 
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful 
yell, 



And strives to strangle him before he die. 
And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, 

Save the wild wind and the remorseless 
dash 




"And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 
And down she suck'd with her the whirlinj 



As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 

And down she suck'd with her the whirling 
wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy. 



Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 



THE DREAM OF CLAREJ^CE. 

(From "King Richard III.," Act I., Scene 4.) 

CLAR. Rethought, that I had broken from Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 

the Tower, Upon the hatches ; thence we look'd toward 
And was embark'd to cross to Burgimdy ; England, 

And in my company, my brother Gloster: And cited up a thousand heavy times, 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



291 



During the Wars of York and Lancaster 
That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 
Methought, that Gloster stumbled; and, in 

falling. 
Struck me, that thought to stay him, over- 
board. 
Into the tumbling billows of the main. 

Lord! methought, what pain it was to 

drown ! 
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! 
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes! 
Methought, I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon ; 
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. 
All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. 
Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and, in those 

holes 
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were 

crept 
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems. 
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep. 
And mocked the dead bones that lay scatter'd 

by. 
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of 

death, 
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep ? 
Clar, Methought, I had ; and often did I 

strive 
To yield the ghost : but still the envious flood 
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth 
To seek the empty, vast, and wand'ring air ; 
But smother'd it within my panting bulk, 
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 
Brak. Awak'd you not with this sore 

agony ! 
Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthened after 

life ; 
O, then began the tempest to my soul ; 

1 pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood. 
With that grim ferryman which poets write 

of. 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 
The first that there did greet my stranger 

soul. 
Was my great father-in-law, renowned War- 
wick, 
Who cry'd 'aloud, — What scourge for per jury 
Can this dark monarchy offer false Clarence f 
And so he vanish'd: Then came wand'ring 

hy 
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 
Dabbled in blood: and he shriek'd out 
aloud, — 



Clarence is comey— false, fleeting, perjured Clar- 

rence, — 
That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury ; — 
^eize on him, furies, take him to your torments! 
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, 
I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after, 
Could not believe but that I was in hell ; 
Such terrible impression made my dream. 
Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted 

you; 
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. 
Clar. O, Brakenbury, I have done these 

things, — 
That now give evidence against my soul, — 
For Edward's sake ; and, see, how he requites 

me : — 

God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease 

thee. 
But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds. 
Yet execute thy wrath on me alone : 
O, spare my guiltless wife, and my poor child- 
ren! — 

1 pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me ; 
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. 

Brak. I will, my lord ; God give your grace 
good rest ! 

[Cla. reposes himself on a chair. 
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, 
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide 

night. 
Princes have but their titles for their glories, 
An outward honour for an inward toil ; 
And, for unfelt imaginations. 
They often feel a world of restless cares : 
So that between their titles, and low name, 
There's nothing differs but the outward fame. 
William Shakspere. 



HEJVRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS. 

(From "King Henry V.," Act III., Scene 1.) 

T^IKG HEN. Once more unto the breach, 

W[^ dear friends, once more ; 

Or close the wall up with our English dead I 

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, 

As modest stillness, and humility : 

But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 

Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 

Stiffen the sinews, snmmon up the blood. 

Disguise fair nature with hard-favor'd rage : 

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 

Let it pry through the portage of the head, 



292 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'er- 

whelin it, 
As fearfully, as doth a galled rock 
O'erhang and jiitty his confounded base, 
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril 

wide ; 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every 

spirit 
To his full height ! — On, on, you noblest English, 
Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof! 
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, 
Have, in these parts, from morn till even 

fought. 
And sheath'd their swords for lack of argu- 
ment. 
Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest. 
That those whom you call'd fathers, did beget 
you ! 



Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war! — And you, good 

yeomen. 
Whose limbs were made in England, show us 

here 
The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 
That you are worth your breeding : which I 

doubt not ; 
For there is none of you so mean and base. 
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
I see you stand like greyhounds in the 

slips. 
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ; 
Follow your spirit : and upon this charge, 
Cry — God for Harry I England! and Saint 

George I 
[Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off. 
William Shakspere. 



J^ SPAJflSH BULL-FIGHT, 

(From "Childe PTarold," Canto I.) 

np^HE lists are oped, the spacious area None through their cold disdain are doomed 

"P^ clear'd, to die. 

Thousands on thousands piled are seated As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's 

round ; sad archery. 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is 

heard, Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant 

No vacant space for lated wight is found : steeds, 




The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round." 



Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames 

abound, 
Skiird in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 



With milk-white crests, gold spur, and 

light-poised lance, 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance; 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



293 



Kich are their scarfs, their charges featly 

prance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely 

glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away. 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their 
toils repay. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all afoot, the light-lim'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is trav- 
ersed o'er. 
Lest aught unseen should lurk, to thw^art 

his speed : 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without his friendly 
steed — 
Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and 
bleed. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal 

falls. 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled 

walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty 

brute. 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding 

foot. 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe ; 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, 

to suit 
His first attack, wide weaving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd : away. 
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the 

spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers 

veer; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he 

goes; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent 

clear ; 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his 

throes ; 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellow- 

ings speak his woes. 

Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 



Nor the wild plunging of the tortured 

horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms as- 
sail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled 

corse ; 
Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears; 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source, 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame 
he rears; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord un- 
harm'd he bears. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the 

last. 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances 

brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready 

brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thunder- 
ing way. 
Vain rage : the mantle quits the cunning 
hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye ; 'tis past ; he sinks upon 
the sand. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 

THE IJ^TGRATITUDE OF 
REPUBLICS. 

(From "Julius Caesar," Act I., Scene 1.) 

J&iAR. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest 

■jWi brings he home ? 
What tributaries follow him to Rome, 
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels ? 
You blocks, you stones, you worse than sense- 
less things ! 
O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, 
Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, 
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney- 
tops. 
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 
The live-long day, with patient expectation, 
To see great Pompey pass the streets of 

Rome: 
And when you saw his chariot but appear, 
Have you not made an universal shout. 
That Tyber trembled underneath her banks. 
To hear the replication of your sounds. 
Made in her concave shores ? 



294 



POEMS OF PASSION AKD AOTtOI^. 



And do you now put on your best attire ? 
And do you now cull out a holiday? 
And do you now strew flowers in liis way, 
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ? 
Be gone ; 



Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 
That needs must light on this ingrati- 
tude. 

William Shakspere. 



THE PRISOJ^ER OF CHILLOK. 



fHERE are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeon's deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and grey. 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray. 



And in each pillar there is a ring, 
And in each ring there is a chain ; 

That iron is a cankering thing. 
For in these limbs its teeth remain, 




"These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own !" 



A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 



With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 



POEMS OF PASSION AND ACTION. 



295 



1 lost their lotig and heavy score, 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

They chained us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face. 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus together — yet apart. 
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
It was at length the same to me. 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learned to love despair. 
And thus when they appeared at last. 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watched them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learned to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh. 

GiEORGE Gordon, Lord Byron. 



EjYSIGJr EPPS. 

T|^ NSIGN Epps at the battle of Flanders 
JElX Sowed a seed of glory and duty 
That flowers and flames in height and beauty? 
Like a crimson lily with a heart of gold. 
To-day when the wars of Ghent are old 
And buried as deep as their dead com- 
manders. 
Ensign Epps was the color bearer — 
No matter on which side, Philip or Earl; 
Their cause was the spell — his deed was the 

pearl. 
Scarce more than a lad he had been a sharer 
That day in the wildest work of the field. 
He was wounded and spent and the fight was 

lost. 
His comrades were slain or a scattered host, 
But stainless and scathless out of the strife 
He had carried his colors safer than life. 
By the river's brink, without a weapon or 

shield. 
He faced the victors. The thick heart mist 
He dashed from his eyes, and the silk he 

kissed 
Ere he held it aloft in the setting sun. 
As proudly as if the fight were won. ' 
And he smiled when they ordered him to 

yield ; 
Ensign Epps, with his broken blade, 
Cut the silk from his gilded stafl", 
Which he poised like a spear till the charge 

was made. 
And hurled at the leader with a laugh. 
Then round his breast, like the scarf of love, 
He tied the colors of his heart above. 
And plunged in his armor into the tide. 
And there, in his dress of honor, he died. 
What are the lessons your kinglings teach? 
And what is the text of your proud com- 
manders? 
Out of the centuries heroes reach 
With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a 

story 
Of one man's truth and of all men's glory, 
Like Ensign Epps at the battle of Flanders. 
John Boyle O'Reilly. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 

BRIGADE. 

T|JALF a league, half a league, 
JS^ Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of death. 
Rode the six hundred. 



296 



J»OEMS OF PASSION AND ACTIOK. 



Into the vallej'- of death 
Rode the six hundred ; 

For up came an order which 
Some one had blundered. 

" Forward, the light brigade ! 

Take the guns!" Nolan said : 

Into the valley of death, 
Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward the light brigade !" 
No man was there dismayed — 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die — 
Into the valley of death. 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well ; 
Into the jaws of death. 
Into the mouth of hell, 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed all at once in air. 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered. 
Plunged in the battery smoke, 
With many a desp'rate stroke 
The Russian line they broke ; 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them. 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
While horse and hero fell. 
Those that had fought so well 
Came from the jaws of death, 
Back from the mouth of hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 
Oh the wild charge they made I 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the light brigade. 

Noble six hundred ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 








Beauty shall glide alon^ 
Circled by soug." 




pOEM^ Of ipEAUTY, 



bi:a uty ajs'b sojyg. 

^JvOWN in yon summer vale, 
Jl/ Where the rill flows, 
Thus said a Nightingale 

To his loved Rose : 
" Though rich the pleasures 
Of song's sweet measures, 
Vain were its melody. 
Rose, without thee." 

Then from the green recess 

Of her night-bo w'r. 
Beaming with bashfulness. 

Spoke the bright flow'r : 



" Though morn should lend her 
Its sunniest splendour, 
What would the Rose be, 
Unsung by thee ?" 

Thus still let Song attend 

Woman's bright way ; 
Thus still let Woman lend 

Light to the lay. 
Like stars, through heaven's sea, 
Floating in harmony, 
Beauty shall glide along. 
Circled by song. 

Thomas Moore. 



LOVE OF MATURE IJf THE DECLIJYE OF LIFE. 

(From "Caxtoniana.") 

'HERE was one period of my life when I considered every hour spent out of capitals 
as time wasted ; when, with exhilarated spirits, I would return from truant loiterings 
under summer trees to the smoke and din of London thoroughfares ; I loved to hear 
the ring of my own tread on the hard pavements. The desire to compete and combat ; 
the thirst of excitements opening one upon another in the upward march of an opposed 
career, the study of man in his thickest haunts, the heart's warm share in the passions which 
the mind, clear from their inebriety, paused to analyze, these gave to me, as they give to most 
active men in the unflagging energies of youth, a delight in the vistas of gas-lamps, and the 
hubbub of the great mart for the interchange of ideas. But now, I love the country as I did 
when a little child, before I had admitted into my heart that ambition which is the first fierce 
lesson we learn at school. Is it, partly, that those trees never remind us that we are growing 



300 POEMS OF BEAUTY. 

old '? Older than we are, their hollow stems are covered with rejoicing leaves. The birds 
build among their bowering branches rather than in the lighter shade of the saplings. Nature 
has no voice that wounds the self-love ; her coldest wind nips no credulous affection. She 
alone has the same faith in our age as in our youth. The friend with whom we once took 
sweet counsel we have left in the crowd, a stranger, perhaps a foe. The woman in whose 
eyes, some twenty years ago, a paradise seemed to open in the midst of a fallen world, we 
passed the other day with a frigid bow. She wore rouge and false hair. But those wild- 
flowers under the hedge-rows, those sparkles in the happy waters, no friendship has gone from 
them ; their beauty has no simulated freshness ; their smile no fraudulent deceit. 

But there is a deeper truth tlian all this, in the influence which Nature gains over us In pro- 
portion as life withdraws itself from struggle and contention. We are placed on earth for a 
certain period to fulflU, according to our several conditions and degrees of minds, those duties 
by which the earth's history is carried on. Desk and warehouse, factory and till, forum and 
senate, schools of science and art, arms and letters; by these we beautify and enrich our com- 
mon habitation; by these we defend, bind together, exalt the destinies of our common race. 
And during this period the mind is wisely fitted less to contemplate than to act, less to repose 
than to toil. The great stream of worldly life needs attrition along its banks in order to 
maintain the law that regulates the movements of its waves. But when that period of action 
approaches towards its close, the soul, for which is decreed an existence beyond the uses of 
earth, an existence aloof from desk and warehouse, factory and till, forum and senate, schools 
of science and art, arms and letters, gradually relaxes its hold of former objects, and, insen- 
sibly perhaps to itself, is attracted nearer to ward the divine source of all being, in the increas- 
ing witchery which Nature, distinct from man, reminds it of its independence of the crowd 
from which it begins to re-emerge. 

And in connection with this spiritual process, it is noticeable how intuitively in age we go 
back with strange fondness to all that is fresh in the earliest dawn of youth. If we never 
cared for little children before, we delight to see them roll in the grass over which we hobble 
on crutches. The grandsire turns wearily from his middle-aged, care-worn son, to listen with 
infant laugh to the prattle of an infant grand-child. It is the old who plant young trees ; it is 
the old who are most saddened by autumn, and feel most delight in the returning spring. 

And, in the exquisite delicacy with which hints of the invisible eternal future are conveyed 
to us, may not that instinctive sympathy, with which life in age rounds its completing circle 
towards the point at which it touches the circle of life in childhood, be a benign intimation 

that 

" Death is naught 
But the soul's birth, and so we should it call." 

And may there be no meaning more profound than the obvious interpretation in the sacred 
words, " Make yourselves as little children, for of such is the kingdom of heaven " ? 

Sir Edward Bulwer, Lord Lyttox. 

THE SEASOJfS. 

(From "The Faery Queen.") 

O forth issew'd the seasons of the yeare : That sweetly sung to call forth para- 
First, lusty Spring all dight in leaves mours; 

and flowres And in his hand a iavelin he did beare, 

That freshly budded and new bloosmes did And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) 

beare, A guilt engraven morion he did weare ; 

In which a thousand birds had built their That as some did him love, so others did him 

bowres feare, 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



301 




' First, lusty bpnng all dight in leaves and flowres 
That freshly budded and new bloosmes did beare." 



Then came the ioUy Sommer, being dight 
In a thin silken cassock colored greene, 

That was unlyned all, to be more light : 
And on his head a girlond well beseene 
He wore, from which as he had chaufFed 
been 



Then came the Autumne all in yellow clad, 
As though he ioyed in his plentious store. 
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full 
glad 
That he had banisht hunger, which to- 
fore 




Then came the iolly Sommer, being dight 
In a thin silken cassock colored greene." 



The sweat did drop ; and in his hand he 
bore 
A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene 
Had hunted late the libberd or the bore, 
And now would bathe his limbs with labor 
heated sore. 



Had by the belly oft him pinched sore ; 
Upon his head a wreath, that w^as enroled 

With eagres of corne of every sort, he bore; 
And in his hand a sickle he did holde, 
To reape the ripened fruits the which the 
earth had yold. 




Then came the Autumne all in yellow clad, 



full glad, 



^02 POEMS OF BEAUTY. 




" Lastly came Winter clothed all in frize, 

Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill." 



Lastly came Winter clothed all in frize, In his right hand a tipped staffe he held, 

Chattering his teeth for cold that did him With which his feeble steps he stayed 

chill, still ; 

Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did For he was faint with cold, and weak with 

freese, eld, 

And the dull drops, that from his purpled That scarce his loose limbes he able was to 

bill weld. 

As from a limbeck did adown distil : Edmund Spenser. 



THE SEASOJVS. 

(From "The Revolt of Islam," Canto IX.) 

J|p5HE blasts of Autumn drive the winged Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet ; 

W seeds Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou 

Over the earth ; next come the snows, and bearest 

rain, Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with 

And frost, and storms, which dreary Winter gentle feet, 

leads Disturbing not the leaves which are her wind- 
Out of his Scythian cave, a savage train. ing sheet. 
Behold! Spring sweeps over the world 
again. 
Shedding soft dews from her ethereal wings ; Virtue, and Hope, and Love, like light and 
Flowers on the mountain, fruits over the Heaven, 

plain, Surround the world ; we are their chosen 

And music on the waves and woods she flings, slaves. 

And love on all that lives, and calm on lifeless Has not the whirlwind of our spirit driven 

things. Truth's deathless germs to thought's remot- 
est caves ? 

O Spring ! of hope, and love, and youth, and Lo, Winter comes ! the grief of many 

gladness, graves. 

Wind-winged emblem ! brightest, best and The frost of death, the tempest of the 

fairest I sword. 

Whence comest thou, when, with dark Win- The flood of tyranny, whose sanguine waves 

ter's sadness, Stagnate like ice at Faith, the enchanter's 

The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou word, 

sharest? And bind all human hearts in its repose 

Sister of Joy ! thou art the child who wear- abhorred. 

est Percy Bysshe Shelley. 




19 



" Yet what her lavish hand hath spilled remains, 
For careful gleftning jg to her unknown," 



304 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



IJf THE OCTOBER FIELDS. 



J^HE bright-robed days sit now at feast, 
i®' and sup 

From golden service heaped with fruits 
divine ; 
The waning year drinks from October's cup 
The melancholy cheer of autumn's wine. 

A ruddier tide now fills the tingling veins 

And life takes on a sturdier-hearted tone. 
Care's hungering grasp the mounting soul dis- 
dains, 
And scorns to count the sorrows she hath 

known. 
What matters it if summer's birds have flown, 
And rustling leaves drift on the upland plains? 
Though Nature's wide arms bear her precious 
grains 
To fragrant hidden garners of her own. 
Yet what her lavish hand hath spilled re- 
mains. 
For careful gleaning is to her unknown ; 
From her full hand her ripened seeds are 
thrown 
On springing fields late freshened from the 
the rains, 



And Hope's clear bugle on the hills is blown 
By comely lips made moist with fruity stains. 

Shall we be found less generous to our souls 
Than are the seasons to the patient earth ? 

Shall we yet choose to drift in mental shoals 
Where weak-winged fancies only find a 
birth? 

Shall we be found more niggard of our store 
Than are the flame-crowned princes of the 
wood. 

While at our heart's inhospitable door 
A brother faints for some withholden good? 

The richest gifts of Nature kept unshared 
Become but poverty ; goods unbestowed, 

Like fruits ungathered, shrivel into blight, 
Which mars the soul's new blossoming; the 

road 
Of excellence was by some god prepared 
So that no souls might win the glorious 
height 
Save those unweighted by that hindering load. 
Robert Burns Wilsox. 



OCTOBER DAYS. 

(From "Shadow Brook," in "Wonder Book.") 

Vj 'HE sun was now an hour or two beyond its noontide mark, and filled the great hollow 
of the valley with its western radiance, so that it seemed to be brimming with mellow 
light, and to spill it over the surrounding hillsides, like golden wine out of a bowl. It 
^^f was such a day that you could not help saying of it, " There never was such a day be- 
fore!" although yesterday was just such a day, and tomorrow will be just such another. 
Ah, but there are very few of them in a twelvemonth's circle ! It is a remarkable peculiarity 
of these October days that each of them seems to occupy a great deal of space, although the 
sun rises rather tardily at that season of the year, and goes to bed, as little children ought, at 
sober six o'clock, or even earlier. We cannot, therefore, call the days long ; but they appear, 
somehow or other, to make up for their shortness by their breadth ; and when the cool night 
comes, we are conscious of having enjoyed a big armful of life, since morning. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

A SOjYG IjY OCTOBER. 

§H, hear ye not a voice that comes a-sing- " Home, shepherds ; home, sheep ; Winter 

ing through the trees, cometh near: 

Across the mead and down the dell, along the Wither, flowers ; fall, leaves ; days will soon 

dying breeze ? be drear." 

And hear ye not the burden of its melancholy And hear ye not another voice a-sighing o'er 

song, the main. 

Upon the lingering winds of Autumn sadly Across the surf, along the beach, a monody of 

borne along? pain? 




POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



305 



Oh, tremble while ye listen to its melancholy " Part, lovers ; part, maids ; Winter cometh 

song, near : 

Upon the lingering winds of Autumn sadly Sleep, kisses ; die, love ; life will soon be 

borne along : drear." W. J. Henderson. 




" In eddyinsj course when leaves began to fly, 
As mid wild scenes I chanced the muse to woo." 

ECHO AJfD SILEJfCE. 
N eddying course when leaves began to fly, Through glens untrod, and woods that frown- 
And Autumn in her lap the stores to strew, ed on high. 

As mid wild scenes I chanced the muse to woo Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy; 



306 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



And lo ! she's gone— in robe of dark-green hue 
'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew: 
For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the 

sky. 
In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 
Not so her sister. Hark ! For onward still 
With far-heard step she takes her listening 

way, 
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill ; 
Ah I mark the merry maid, in mockful play, 
With thousand mimic tones the laughing 

forest fiU ! 

Sm Egerton Brydges. 



AXD JVOW COMES AUTUMJ^. 

tXD now comes Autumn — artist hold and 
free, 
Exceeding rich in brightest tints that be — 
And with a skill that tells of power divine 
Paints a vast landscape wonderfully fine. 
Over the chestnut cloth of gold he throws. 
Turns the ash purple, cheers with scarlet 

glows 
The lonely sumac, that erewhile was seen 
Clad in dull foliage of a somber green. 
Where daises bloomed gives golden-rod in 

stead, 
Stains every oak leaf with the darkest red. 
Sets all the woodbine's waving sprays on fire. 
And leaves them flaming from the cedar's 

spire, 
And clust'ring berries hangs he here and there. 
Some like the rubies, some as round and fair 
As pearls, some blue as sapphires, some as 

brown 
As the fast-fading leaves that rustle down 
Beneath the trees that give them life, to die. 
Or else away with roving winds to fly. 
And when at last all's finished— hill and dale, 
AVildwood and field— he drops a misty vail 
Over the picture, and a few glad days 
The world looks on with wonder and with 

praise. 
Till faint and fainter all the colors grow. 
And Winter hides it underneath the snow. 
Margaret Eytinge. 



A TJTVMKAL SOMJ^ET. 

OW Autumn's fire bums slowly along the 

woods, 
And day by day the dead leaves fall and 
melt. 
And night by night the monitorj^ blast 



Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed 
O'er empty fields or upland solitudes, 

Or grim, wide wave ; and now the power 
is felt 
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 

Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. 
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve. 
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize 
The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes. 
It may be somewhat thus we shall have leave 

To walk with memory, when distant lies 
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and 
grieve. 

WiLLIAIM AlLINGHAM. 



IJfDIAJf SUMMER, 

T is the Indian summer-time, 
The days of mist, and haze, and glory, 
And on the leaves in hues sublime. 
The Autumn paints poor Summer's story. 



" She died in beauty," sing the hours, 
" And left on earth a glorious shadow ;" 

" She died in beauty, like her flowers," 
Is painted on each wood and meadow. 

She perished, like bright human hopes. 
That blaze awhile upon life's altar; 

And o'er her green and sunny slopes 
The plaintive winds her dirges falter. 

It is the Indian summer-time ! 

The crimson leaves like coals are gleaming, 
The brightest tints of every clime 

Are o'er our western forest streaming. 

How bright the hours ! Yet o'er their close 
The moments sigh in mournful duty, 

And redder light around them glows. 
Like hectic on the cheek of beauty ! 

Mrs. Nicholls. 



w 



IJ^DIAK SUMMER. 

(From "Miami "Woods.") 

HAT a change hath passed upon the face 



spreads, 
Once robed in deepest green ! All through the 

night 
The subtle frost hath plied its mystic art ; 
And in the day, the golden sun hath wrought 
True wonders ; and the winds pf morn and 

even 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



307 



Have touched with magic breath the chang- 
ing leaves ; 
And now, as wanders the dilating eye 
Across the varied landscape, circling far, 
Whatgorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp 
Of colors, bursts upon the ravished sight ! 
Here, where the maple rears its yellow crest. 



A golden glory ; yonder, where the oak 
Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash 
Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad 
The dogwood spreads beneath, a rolling flood 
Of deepest crimson ; and afar, where looms 
The gnarled gum, a cloud of bloodiest red ! 
William D. Gallagher. 




A DIRGE. 

f^HE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is And the year, 

1 ^ , wailing. On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of 
Ihe bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers leaves dead, 

are dying, Is lying; 



308 



POEMS O^ BEAUTY. 



1 





Come, months, come away. 
From November to May, 
In your saddest array ; 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year. 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepul- 
cher. 

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is 
crawling. 

The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knell- 
ing, 



For the year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards 
each gone 
To his dwelling. 
Come, months, come away; 
Put on white, black, and gray; 
Let your light sisters play ; 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year. 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



309 



XOYEMBER. 



n^HE wild IS'ovember comes at last 

j^ Beneath a veil of rain ; 
The night- wind blows its folds aside. 
Her face is full of pain. 



A barren realm of withered fields, 
Bleak woods of fallen leaves, 

The palest morns that ever dawned, 
The dreariest of eves. 




The wild November comes at last 
Beneath a veil of rain." 



The latest of her race, she takes 
The autumn's vacant throne, 

She has but one short month to live, 
And she must live alone. 



It is no wonder that she comes. 
Poor month! with tears of pain ; 

For what can one so hopeless do 
But weep, and weep again ? 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



WIJ^TER. 

(From "The Task," Book IV.) 



SWrnTEE., ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes 

filled, 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy 

cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other 

snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in 

clouds, 
A leifless branch thy scepter, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels. 
But urged by storms along its slippery way, 
1 love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st. 
And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the 

sun 



A prisoner in the yet undawning east. 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease. 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
I crown thee king of intimate delights, 
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness. 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninteiTupted evening know. 

VVlLLIAAI COWrEK. 




"But the humnng host that flew between 
The cloud and water, no more is seen." 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



311 



THE SJ^OW-SHOWEB. 

^TAND here by my side and turn, I pray, 
)# On the lake below, tliy gentle eyes ; 
The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, 

And dark and silent the water lies ; 
And out of that frozen mist the snow 
In wavering flakes begins to flow ; 

Flake after flake. 
They sink in the dark and silent lake. 

See how in a living swarm they come 
From the chambers beyond that misty veil ; 

Some hover awhile in air, and some 
Eush prone from the sky like summer hail. 

All dropping swiftly or settling slow. 

Meet and are still in the depths below ; 
Flake after flake 

Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 

Here, delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, 

Come floating downward in airy play. 
Like spangles dropped from the glistening 
crowd 
That whiten by night the milky way : 
There, broader and burlier masses fall; 
The sullen water buries them all ; 

Flake after flake, 
All drowned in the dark and silent lake. 

And some, as on tender wings they glide 
From their chiUy birth-cloud, dim and gray. 

Are joined in their fall, and side by side 
Come clinging along their unsteady way ; 

As friend with friend, or husband with wife. 

Makes hand in hand the passage of life ; 
Each mated flake 

Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. 

Lo ! while we are gazing in swifter haste 

Stream down the snows, till the air is white. 
As, myriads by myriads madly chased. 
They fling themselves from their shadowy 

height. 
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky. 
What speed they make, with their grave so 
nigh! 

Flake after flake, 
To lie in the dark and silent lake ! 

1 see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 

They turn to me in sorrowful thought ; 
Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, 



Who were for a time, and now are not ; 
Like these fair children of cloud and frost, 
That glitter a moment and then are lost. 

Flake after flake. 
All lost in the dark and silent lake! 



Yet look again, for the clouds divide ; 
A gleam of blue on the water lies ; 
And far away, on the mountain side, 

A sunbeam falls from the opening skies. 
But the hurrying host that flew between 
The cloud and water, no more is seen ; 

Flake after flake. 
At rest in the dark and silent lake. 

William Cullen Bkyant. 



LOST IJV THE SJVO W. 

("From Winter.") 

tS thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce 
All Winter drives along the darkened air, 
In his own loose-revolving fields the swain 
Disastered stands ; sees other hills ascend. 
Of unknown joyless brow ; and other scenes. 
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 
'Not finds the river, nor the forest, hid 
Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
From hill to dale, still more and more astray. 
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 
Stung with the thoughts of home; the 

thoughts of home 
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth 
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! 
What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! 
When for the dusky spot which fancy 

feigned 
His tufted cottage, rising through the snow. 
He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 
Far from the track and blest abode of man ; 
While round him night resistless closes fast. 
And every tempest, howling o'er his head, 
Senders the savage wilderness more wild. 
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind. 
Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, 
A dire descent, beyond the power of frost ; 
Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge. 
Smoothed up with snow ; and what is land, 

unknown ; 
What water, of the still unfrozen spring. 
In the loose marsh or solitary lake. 
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom 

boils. 



91^ 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 




I 



" From hill to dale, still more and more astray, 
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps. 



These check his fearful steps; and down he 

sinks 
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 
Mixed with the tender anguish Nature shoots 
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man: 
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 
In vain for him the officious wife prepares 
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; 
In vain his little children, peeping out 
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire. 
With tears of artless innocence. Alas! 
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold. 
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every 

nerve 
The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up sense ; 
And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, 
Stretched out, and bleaching in the Northern 

blast. 

James Thomson. 







Thomson. 



THE SJVOW-STOEM. 



.^JNWARNED by any sunset light, 
■' The gray day darkened into night ; 



A night made hoaxy with the swarm 



(From "Snow-Bound.") 

And whirl-dance of the blinding storm; 
As zigzag wavering to and fro. 
Crossed and recrossed the winged snow 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



313 



And ere tlie early bed-tim6 came, 
The white drift piled the window-frame, 
And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 

So all night long the storm roared on ; 
The morning broke without a sun ; 
In tiny spherule traced with lines 
Of nature's geometric signs. 
In starry flake, and pellicle. 
All day the hoary meteor fell ; 
And when the second morning shone, 
We looked upon a world unknown. 
On nothing we could call our own. 
Around the glistening wonder bent 
The blue walls of the firmament, 



No cloud above, no earth below, 

A universe of sky and snow : 

The old familiar sights of ours 

Took marvelous shapes ; strange domes and 

towers 
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. 
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; 
A smooth white mound the brush pile showed, 
A fenceless drift what once was road; 
The bridle-post an old man sat 
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 
And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 

JoHx Gkeenleaf Whittier. 




Cottage and field 
Alike concealed." 



MIDWIJVTEB. 



ICICLES hang 

f Where Summer sang; 

The north winds clang 

From frozen lands. 
O'er hill and valley, 
Down wind-swept alley, 
The storm-clouds sally 

In whirling bands. 

Cottage and field, 
Alike concealed 
Beneath the shield 

Of Winter lie. 
The world, snow-sheeted, 
As one defeated — 



A queen unseated — 
Makes mournful cry. 

The short day dies ; 
No stars arise 
In serried skies 

That shake with snow. 
The rough wind whistles. 
And hurls his missiles 
Where keen ice bristles 

On rocks below. 

On rocks that reach 
Above the beach. 
Where sit and screech 



114 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



The gulls at night. 
By waves foam-fretted, 
With seaweed netted 
Their sharp teeth whetted 

For dark sea-light. 

But winds may roll 
O'er sound and shoal, 
And cheek by jowl, 

The storm-kings ride. 
Men meet together. 
Despite the weather ; 
Still nods the feather 

O'er blushing bride. 

In happy homes. 
When twilight gloams. 
And darkness roams, 

The feast is made; 
And fires are lighted. 
And troths are plighted. 
And hearts united 

Of youth and maid. 

And on lone heights 
The beacon lights 
Burn bright o' nights 

For ships at sea. 
Though warring Winter 
May smile and splinter. 
And ice-peaks glint, or 

The snow falls free. 

AXOXYMOUS. 



THU FROST. 

OT^HE Frost looked forth, one still clear 

F night, 
And he said, •• Now I shall be out of sight; 
So through the valley and over the height 

In silence I'll take my way. 
I will not go like that blustering train. 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, 
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain ; 
But I'll be as busy as theyl" 

Then he went to the mountain, and powdered 

its crest. 
He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he 

dressed 
With diamonds and pearls, and over the 

breast 
Of the quivering lake he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 



The downward point of many a gpeaf 
That he hung on its margin, far and near, 
Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the windows of those who slept. 

And over each pane like a fairy crept ; 

Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, 
By the light of the moon were seen 

Most beautiful things. There were flowers and 
trees. 

There were bevies of birds and swarms of 
bees, 

There were cities, thrones, temples and tow- 
ers, and these 
All pictured in silver sheen ! 

But he did one thing that was hardly fair,— 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare, — 

" N'ow just to set them a thinking, 
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he ; 
•' This costly pitcher I'll burst in three. 
And the glass of water they've left for me 

Shall 'tchick !' to tell them I'm drinking." 
Hannah Flagg Gould. 



SPRIJS'G. 

(From "^lla; " spelling modernized.) 

fHE budding floweret blushes at the light, 
The meads he sprinkled with the yellow 
hue. 
In daisied mantles is the mountain dight. 
The fresh young cowslip bendeth with the 
dew; 
The trees enleafed, into heaven straught. 
When gentle winds do blow, to whistling 
wind is brought. 

The evening comes, and brings the dews 
along. 
The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne, 
Aroand the ale-stake minstrels sing the song, 
Young ivy round the door-post doth en- 
twine ; 
I lay me on the grass ; yet to my will, 
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something stilL 
Thomas Chattektox. 



PRELUDE. 

(To " The Loves of the Angels.") 

»J^WAS when the world was In its prime, 
~^ When the fresh stars had just begun 
Their race of glory, and young Time 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



315 



Told his first birth-days by the sun ; 
When, in the light of nature's dawn, 

Rejoicing men and angels met 
On the high hill and sunny lawn ; 
Ere Sin had come, or Sori'ow drawn " 

'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet ; 



When earth lay nearer to the skies 
Than in these days of crime and woe. 

And mortals saw, without surprise. 

In the mid-air, angelic eyes 
Gazing upon this world below. 

Thojvus Moore. 




" When daflfodils begin to peer." 

SOJVG. 

(From " The Winter's Tale.") 



W'HEN daffodils begin to peer, 
With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, — 
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; 
For the red blood reigns in the winter's 
pale. 

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge. 
With heigh ! the sweet birds, O, how they 

sing! 



Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; 
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 

The lark, that tirra-lirra chants. 

With heigh ! with heigh ! the thrush and 
the jay, 
Are summer songs for me and my aunts. 

While we lie tumbling in the hay. 

WiLLIAJVI ShaKSPERE. 



SPRIJfG. 



WHEN" the hounds of spring are on win- 
ter's traces, 
The mother of months in meadow or plain 
Fills the shadows and windy places 
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 
And the brown bright nightingale am- 
orous 
Is half assuaged for Itylus, 
For the Thracian ships, and the foreign faces, 
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying of 
quivers. 
Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 
With a noise of winds m^ many rivers, 



With a clamor of waters and with might ; 
Bind on thy sandals, Oh thou most fleet. 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ! 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
shivers 
Round the feet of the day and the feet of 
the night. 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to 
her. 
Fold our hands round her knees and cling ? 
Oh, that man's heart were as fire, and could 
spring to her ! 
Fire, or the strength of the streams that 
spring! 



316 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind 
sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over. 

And all the season of snows and sins ; 
The days dividing lover and lover. 

The light that loses, the night that wins ; 
And time remembered is grief forgotten. 
And frosts are slain, and flowers begotten, 
And in green underwood and clover. 
Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 
Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot ; 
The faint fresh flame of the young year 
flushes 
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
And fruit and leaf are as gold and flre, 
And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 
Follows with dancing and Alls with delight 
The Maenad and the Bassarid ; 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide. 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide. 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
Over her eyebrows shading her eyes; 
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
Her bright breasts shortening into sighs; 
The wild vine slips with its weight of 

leaves, 

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 

To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 

The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 

Charles Algekxon S^\^NBURNE. 



THE SYMFKOKY OF SPRUNG. 

(From "Spring.") 

S rising from the vegetable world 
?ii>i My theme ascends, with equal wing as- 
cend, 



My panting muse ! 
woods 



And hark, how loud the 



Invite you forth in all your gayest trim ! 
Lend me your songs, ye nightingales! oh, 

pour 
The mazy-running soul of melody 
Into my varied verse ! w hile I deduce 
From the flrst note the hollow cuckoo sings. 
The symphony of spring, and touch a theme 
Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves. 
When first the soul of love is sent abroad. 
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart 
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin. 
In gallant thought, to plume the painted 

wing. 
And try again the long-forgotten strain. 
At flrst faint-warbled. But no sooner grows 
The soft infusion prevalent and wide. 
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows 
In music unconflned. Up springs the lark, 
ShriU-voiced and loud, the messenger of 

morn ; 
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounting sings 
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their 

haunts 
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse 
Deep-tangled, tree irregular^ and bush 
Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads 
Of the coy choristers that lodge within. 
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush 
And wood-lark, o'er the kind contending 

throng 
Superior heard, run through the sweetest 

length 
Of notes ; when listening Philomela deigns 
To let them joy ; and purposes, in thought 
Elate, to make her night excel their day. 
The black-bird whistles from the thorny 

brake ; 
The mellow bullflnch answers from the 

grove; 
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze 
Poured out profusely, silent ; joined to these, 
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening 

shade 
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw. 
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard 

alone. 
Aid the full concert ; while the stock-dove 

breathes 
A melancholy murmur through the whole. 
'Tis love creates their melody, and all 
This waste of music is the voice of love. 
That even to birds and beasts the tender art 
Of pleasing teaches. 

James Thomson. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



317 




SOXJ^ET TO SPRUNG. 



OT(HE soote season, that bud and bloom 
W forth brings, 
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the 
vale ; 
The nightingale with feathers new she sings, 

The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. 
Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; 
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; 
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 



The fishes fleet, with new repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she flings ; 

The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; 
The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 

Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale ; 
And thus I see among these pleasant things, 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. 



TBOUT-FISHLYG. 

(From "Spring.") 



W^/*HE^, with his lively ray, the potent sun 
W Has pierced the streams, and roused the 

finny race. 
Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair. 
Chief should the western breezes curling play. 
And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds. 
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills 
And woodlands warbling round, trace up the 

brooks ; 
The next, pursue their rocky-channeled maze, 
Down to the river, in whose ample wave 
Their little naiads love to sport at large. 
Just in the dubious point, where with the 

pool 
Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it 

boils 



Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank 
Reverted plays in undulated flow. 
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly; 
And as you lead it round in artful curve. 
With eye attentive mark the springing game. 
Straight as above the surface of the flood 
They wanton rise, or urged by hunger, leap. 
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook; 
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank. 
And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some, 
With various hand proportioned to their 

force. 
If yet too young, and easily deceived, 
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant 

rod. 
Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space 



318 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven, 
Soft disengage, and back Into the stream 
The speckled infant throw. But should you 

lure 
From his dark haunts, beneath the tangled 

roots 
Of pendant trees, the monarch of the brook, 



Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened 

line; 
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering 

weed. 
The caverned bank, his old secure abode, 
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, 
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, 




" There throw, nice judging, the delusive fl}'." 

Behoves you then to ply your finest art. 
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly ; 
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft 
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. 
At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun 
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death. 
With sullen plunge. At once he darts along. 



That feels him still, yet to his furious course 
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now 
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage ; 
Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, 
And to his fate abandoned, to the shore 
You gaily drag yonr unresisting prize. 

James Thomson. 



M«;^COODMEN', shepherds, come away, 
Vpl/ This is Pan's great holiday ! 

Throw off cares, — 
With your heaven-aspiring airs! 

Help us sing, — 
While valleys with your echoes ring; 



so:n'g. 

I^ymphs that dwell within these groves, 
Leave your arbors, bring your loves ; 

Gather posies, — 
Crown your golden hair with roses ; 

As you pass, — 
Foot like fairies on the grass. James Siurley. 



MAY. 

(From "The Faery Queen. 



fHEN came faire May, the fairest maid on 
ground, 
Deck'd all with dainties of her season's 
pride, 
And throwing flowers out of her lap around ; 
Upon two brethren's shoulders she did ride, 
The twin? of Ledaj whiph, on either side, 



Supported her like to their sovereign queene. 
Lord ! how all creatures laugh'd when her 

they spied. 
And leap'd and danced as they had ravisht 

been ; 
And Cupid's self about her flutter'd all in 



greene I 



llpMUNP ^?BN§ER. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



319 




"Month of little hands with daisies, Lovers' love and poet's praises." 



^ AY, thou month of rosy beauty, 
)/Wl Month when pleasure is a duty; 
Month of maids that milli the kine, 
20 



TO MAY. 

Bosom rich, and breath divine , 
Month of bees, and month of flowers, 
Month of blossom-laden hours ; 



320 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Month of little hands with daisies, 
Lovers' love and poet's praises ; 

thou merry month complete, 
May, thy very name is sweet! 
May was maid in olden times, 
And is still in Scottish rhymes ; 
May's the blooming hawthorn bough. 
May's the month that's laughing now. 

1 no sooner write the word. 
Than it seems as though it heard, 
And looks up, and laughs at me, 
Like a sweet face, rosily. 

Like an actual color, bright 
Flushing from the paper's white ; 
Like a bride that knows her power, 
Startled in a summer bower. 

If the rains that do us wrong 
Come to keep the winter long, 
And deny us thy sweet looks, 
I can love thee, sweet, in books. 
Love thee in the poet's pages. 
Where they keep thee green for ages ; 
Love and read thee, as a lovej 
Reads his lady's letters over, 
Breathing blessings on the art 
Which commingles those that part. 

There is 3Iay in books forever ; 
May will part from Spenser never ; 
May's in Milton, May's in Prior, 
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 
May's in all the Italian books; 
She has old and modern nooks. 
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves 
In happy places they call shelves. 
And will rise, and dress your rooms 
With a drapery thick with blooms. 

Come ye rains, then, if ye will. 
May's at home, and with me still. 
But come rather, thou, good weather. 
And find us in the fields together. 

Leigh Hunt. 



SOJ^G TO MAY. 

(From "The Loves of the Plants.") 

BORN in yon blaze of orient sky. 
Sweet May I thy radiant form unfold ; 
Unclose thy blue, voluptuous eye. 
And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. 

For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow. 
For thee descends the sunny shower, 



The rills in softer murmurs flow. 
And brighter blossoms gem the bower. 

Light graces decked in flowery wreaths 
And tiptoe joys their hands combine ; 

And Love his sweet contagion breathes. 
And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. 

Warm with new life, the glittering throng 
On quivering fin and rustling wing. 

Delighted join their votive song. 
And hail thee Goddess of the Spring! 
Erasmus Darwin. 



and 



JUJVE. 

(From ' 'The Vision of Sir Launfal. ") 

TgTND what is so rare as a day in June ? 
iJ^ Then, if ever, come perfect days 
When heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays; 
Whether we look, or whether we listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might. 
An instinct within it that reaches 
towers. 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in valleys green. 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters 

and sings; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her 

nest ; 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the 
best? 
***** 

Joy comes, grief goes, we known not how ; 

Everything is happy now. 

Every thing is upward striving; 

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true. 

As for grass to be green or skies to be blue ; 

'Tis the natural way of living ; 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



321 



And the eyes forget the tears they have shed. 
The heart forgets the sorrow and ache ; 

The soul partakes of the season's youth, 
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 



Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
Like burned-out craters healed with snow. 
James Russell Lowell. 



A HOLIDAY. 



§UT of the city, far away, 
With Spring to-day! 
Where copses tufted with primrose 

Give me repose, 
Wood-sorrel and wild violet 

Soothe my soul's fret, 
The pure delicious vernal air 

Blows away care. 
The birds' reiterated songs 

Heal fancied wrongs. 



To kine that feed. 

Much happier than the kine, I bed 

My dreaming head 
In grass ; I see far mountains blue, 

Like heaven in view ; 
Green world and sunny sky above 

Alive with love ; 
All, all, however came they there, 

Divinely fair. 




'Out of the city, far away, 
With Spring to-day." 



Down the rejoicing brook my grief 

Drifts like a leaf. 
And on its gently murmuring flow 

Doth glide and go ; 
The bud-besprinkled boughs and hedges, 

The sprouting sedges. 
Waving beside the water's brink. 

Come like cool drink 
To f^v^red lips ; like fresh, soft meaiJ 



Is this the better oracle, 

Or what streets tell ? 
O base confusion, falsehood, strife, 

Man puts in life ! 
Sink, thou Life-Measurer ! I can say 

" I've lived a day ," 
And Memory holds it now in keeping, 

Awake or sleeping. 



322 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



SUMMER LOJVGIJVGS, 



H! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May ; 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
Where the fragrant hawthorne brambles 
With the woodbine alternating 

Scent the dewy way ; 
Ah! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah I my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May ; 
Longing to escape from study, 
To the young face fair and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer's day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May. 

Ah I my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May ; 
Sighing for their sure returning. 
When the summer beams are burning, 
Hopes and flowers, that dead or dying, 

All the winter lay. 
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May ; 
Throbbing for the sea-side billows. 
Or the water-wooing willows, 
Where, in laughing and in sobbing, 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the May ; 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings. 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings ; 
Summer comes, yet, dark and dreary. 

Life still ebbs away ; 
Man is ever weary, weary. 

Waiting for the May. 

Denis Florence McCarthy. 



A DREAM OF SUMMER. 

"p) LAND as the morning breath of June 
© The southwest breezes play ; 
And through its haze, the winter noon 

Seems warm as summer's day. 
The snow-plumed Angel of the North 

Has dropped his icy spear ; 



Again the mossy earth looks forth. 
Again the streams gush clear. 

The fox his hillside cell forsakes. 

The musk-rat leaves his nook ; 
The blue-bird in the meadow brakes 

Is singing with the brook. 
"Bear up, O Mother Nature!" cry 

Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; 
" Ourwinter voices prophesy 

Of summer days to thee." 

So, in these winters of the soul. 

By bitter blasts and drear 
O'ersw ept from Memory's frozen pole, 

Will sunny days appear. 
Keviving Hope and Faith, they show 

The soul its living powers. 
And how, beneath the winter's snow. 

Lie germs of summer flowers. 

The Night is mother of the Day, 

The Winter of the Spring ; 
And ever, upon old decay 

The greenest mosses cling ; 
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks. 

Through showers the sunbeams fall ; 
For God who loveth all his w^orks, 

Has left his hope with all ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



1 



1 



1 



THEY COME! THE MERRY SUM- 
MER MOjYTHS. 

fHEY come! the merry summer months 
of beauty, song and flowers ; 

They come ! the gladsome months that bring 
thick leafiness to bowers. 

Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad ; fling 
cark and care aside ; 

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peace- 
ful waters glide ; 

Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal 
tree. 

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in 
rapt tranquility. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful 

to the hand. 
And like the kiss of maiden love the breeze is 

sweet and bland ; 
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding 

courteously ; 
It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless 

and welcome thee j 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



'323 



And mark how with thine own thin locks — 
they now are silvery gray — 

The hlissful breeze is wantoning, and whisper- 
ing, " Be gay !" 



Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all 
gleaming like red gold, 

And hark! with shrill pipe musical their mer- 
ry course they hold. 



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" They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers. 
Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad ; fling cark and care aside." 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean God bless them all, those little ones, who far 

of yon sky above this earth, 

But hath its own winged mariners to give it Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a 

melody: nobler mirth. 



324 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound ; from 

yonder wood it came 1 
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe 

his own glad name ; 
Yes, it is he, the hermit bird, apart from ail 

his kind 
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft 

western wind; 
.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again ; his notes 

are void of art ; 
But simplest strains do soonest sound the 

deep founts of the heart. 

Good Lord, it is a gracious boon for thought- 
crazed wight like me 

To smell again these summer flowers beneath 
this summer tree ; 

To suck once more in every breath their little 
souls away, 

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of 
youth's bright summer day. 

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the 
reckless, truant boy 

Wandered through greenwoods all day long, 
a mighty heart of joy ! 

I'm sadder now ; I have had cause ; but Oh, 

I'm proud to think 
That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet 

delight to drink ; 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the 

calm, unclouded sky, 
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the 

days gone by. 
When summer's loveliness and light fall round 

me dark and cold, 
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, a heart 

that hath waxed old ! 

William Motherwell. 



SOJ^G OF THE SUMMER WI^''DS. 
fJP the dale and down the bourne. 



O'er the meadow, swift we fly ; 
Now we sing, and now we mourn, 
Now we whistle, now we sigh. 

By the grassy-fringed river. 

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; 
'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver. 

To their very hearts we creep. 

Now the maiden rose is blushing 

At the frolic things we say ; 
While aside her cheek we're rushing 

Like some truant bees at play. 



Through the blooming groves we rustle, 

Kissing every bud we pass, 
As we did it in the bustle. 

Scarcely knowing how it was. 

Down the glen, across the mountain, 
O'er the yellow heath we roam, 

Whirling round about the fountain 
Till its little breakers foam. 

Bending down the weeping willows. 
While our vesper hymn we sigh ; 

Then unto our rosy pillows 
On our weary wings we hie. 

There of idlenesses dreaming, 
Scarce from waking we refrain. 

Moments long as ages deeming 
Till we're at our play again. 

GeokCtE Darley. 



"CABPE DIEM." 

MOW, in the season of flowers. 
Now, when the summer is bright, 
When Phoebus stays long with the hours. 
And the earth hardly knows any night, 
The time for enjoyment is ours. 
The time for delight. 

Ere the chiU winds have scattered the roses, 
Ere the petals lie dead on the earth ; 

Ere the season of sweet blossoms closes. 
And the cold winter months have their 
birth. 

Let us join, ere the year its youth loses, 
In laughter and mirth. 

Ah, sweet, youth can last not forever, 
But will fade like a dream that is naught, 

Though we fancy that summer dies never, 
And on winter bestow not a thought ; 

But Time is a weariless weaver. 
His task is soon wrought. 

Then \ve'll spend not our days in sad guesses 
As to what the dim future may bring. 

But we'll cast off" each thought that oppresses. 
For life is a fugitive thing; 

And, happy in love's soft caresses. 
We'll dream but of Spring. 

Anonymous. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. S25 

JU.YE DAYS. 

fHE whilom hills of gray, whose tender The yellow streams that fled from Winter's 

shades hold 

Were dashed with meagre tints of early "VVTien first the young year saw the vernal 

Spring, moon. 

Lift now their rustling domes and cannon- And lipped the yielding banks whose moist- 

ades, ened mould 

And from the airy battlements they fling Slipped mingling with the flood, now sleep 

Their banners to the wind, and in the glades at noon, 

Spread rich pavilions for the Summer's Calm as the imaged hills which they enfold, 

king. All glimmering in the long, long skies of 

June. 
Xow lifts the love-lit soul, and life's full tide 

Swells from the ground and beats the trem- The brindled meadow hides the winding path 

bling air, With interlacing clover, white and red; 




"Now to the cooling shades tbe cows retreat. 

To drowse and dream with mild, half-opening eyes." 



Mounts from the steeps, and on the landscape 
wide 
Spreads like a boundless ocean everywhere. 
Delight's dear dreams the dancing waves di- 
vide. 
And with swift sails outfly pursuing Care. 

The sometime fields that sad and sodden l^y. 
Soaked in the first cold rains, or flecked 
with snow, 
With helpless grasses trodden in the clay 
By shivering herds that wandered to and 
fro, 
Wave now with grain, and happy birds all 
day 
Pipe, hidden on the slopes with flowers 
ablow. 



The blackbirds, startled from their dewy 
bath. 
Fly chattering, joyful with imagined dread ; 
The while the whetting scythe foretells the 
swath, 
And rings the knell of flowers that are not 
dead. 



Now waves of sunlight cross the fields of 
wheat ; 
The shining crow toward the woodland 
flies ; ^' 

Far in the fields the larks their notes repeat, 
And from the fence the whistling partridge 
cries ; 
Now to the cooling shades the cows retreat, 



326 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



To drowse and dream with mild, half-open- 
ing eyes. 

No other days are like the days in June ; 

They stand upon the summit of the year, 
Filled up with remembrance of the tune 
That wooed the fresh spring fields ; they 
have a tear 
For violets dead ; they will engird full soon 
The sweet full breasts of summer drawing 
near. 

Each matchless morning marches from the east 

In tints inimitable and divine ; 
Each perfect noon sustains the endless feast 

In which the wedded charms of life com- 
bine; 



Sweet Evening waits till golden Day, re- 
leased. 
Shall lead her blushing down the world's de- 
cline. 

And when the day is done, a crimson band 
Lies glowing on the hushed and darkening 
west ; 
The groups of trees like whispering spirits 
stand ; 
The robin's song lifts from its trembling 
breast ; 
The shadows steal out from the twilight land; 
And all is peace and quietness and rest. 

Robert Burns WilsoNc 




Flowers. 

FLOWERS. 
LOWERS seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity ; children love them : 
quiet, tender, contented, ordinary people love them as they grow ; luxurious and dis- 
orderly people rejoice in them gathered. They are the cottager's treasure ; and in the 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



327 



crowded town, mark, as with a little broken fragment of rainbow, the windows of 
the workers in whose heart rests the covenant of peace. Passionate or religious minds 
contemplate them with fond, feverish intensity ; the aftection is seen severely calm in the 
works of many old religious painters, and mixed with more open and true country senti- 
ment In those of our own pre-Kaphaelites. To the child and the girl, the peasant and the 
manufacturing operative, to the grisette and the nun, the lover and the monk, they are 
precious always. But to the men of supreme power and thoughtfulness, precious only at 
times ; symbolically, and pathetically often, to the poets, but rarely for their own sake. They 
fall forgotten from the great workmen's and soldiers' hands. Such men will take, in thank- 
fulness, crowns of leaves, or crowns of thorns ; not crowns of flowers. 

John Ruskest. 



THE IVY. 

fUSHING the clods of earth aside. 
Leaving the dark where foul things hide. 
Spreading its leaves to the Summer sun. 
Bondage ended, freedom won ; 
So, my soul, like the ivy be. 
Rise, for the sunshine" calls for thee ! 

Climbing up as the seasons go. 
Looking down upon things below, 
Twining itself in the branches high. 
As if the frail thing owned the sky ; 

So, my soul, like the ivy be. 

Heaven, not earth, is the place for thee. 

Wrapping itself round the giant oak, 
Hiding itself from the tempest's stroke ; 
Strong and brave is the fragile thing, 
For it knows one secret, how to cling ; 
So, my soul, there's strength for thee. 
Hear the Mighty One, " Lean on Me !" 

Green are its leaves w^hen the world is white. 
For the ivy sings through the frosty night ; 
Keeping the hearts of oak awake. 
Till the flowers shall bloom and the Spring 
shall break ; 

So, my soul, through the Winter's rain. 

Sing the sunshine back again. 

Opening its green and fluttering breast. 

Giving the timid birds a nest ; 

Coming out from the Winter wild. 

To make a wreath for the Holy Child ; 
So let my life like the ivy be, 
A help to man and a wreath for Thee ! 
Henry Burton. 



THREE SUMMER STUDIES. 

MORNING. 

fHE cock hath crowed. I hear the doors 
unbarred ; 
Down to the grass-grown porch my way I 
take. 
And, hear, beside the well within the yard, 
Full many an ancient quacking, splashing 
drake. 
And gabbling goose, andnoisy brood-hen,— all 
Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call. 

The dew is thick upon the velvet grass. 

The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops. 
And as the cattle from tlie enclosure pass. 

Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops 
The tall green spears, with all their dewy 

load. 
Which grow beside the well-known pasture 
road. 

A humid polish is on all the leaves,— 
The birds flit in and out with varied notes. 

The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves, 
A partridge whistle through the garden 
floats. 

While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries. 

As red and gold flush all the eastern skies. 

Up comes the sun ! through the dense leaves 
a spot 
Of splendid light drinks up the dew ; the 
breeze 

Which late made leafy music, dies ; the day 
grows hot. 
And slumbrous sounds come from maraud- 
ing bees ; 

The burnished river like a sword-blade shines, 

Save where 'tis shadowed by the solemn 
pines. 



i' 



328 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



NOON. 

§AT]R the farm is brooding silence now, — 
No reaper's song, no raven's clangor 
harsh, 
No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cows, 
No croak of frogs within the spreading 
marsh, 
No bragging cock from littered farmyard 

crows, — 
The scene is steeped in silence and repose 



The very air seems somnolent and sick ; 
The spreading branches with o'er-ripened 
fruit 
Show in the sunshine all their clusters 
thick. 
While now and then a mellow apple falls 
With a dull thud within the orchard's wall. 

The sky has but one solitary cloud 
Like a dark island in a sea of light, 




" The pantinc^ cattle in the river stand, 
Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields.'* 



A trembling haze hangs over all the fields, — 
The panting cattle in the river stand, 

Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce 
yields. 
It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy land; 

So hushed is all beneath the Summer's spell, 

I pause and listen for some faint church-bell. 



The 



leaves are 
mute ; 



motionless, the song-birds 



The parching furrows 'twixt the corn rows 
plowed 
Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight. 
While over yonder road a dusty haze 
Grows luminous beneath the sun's fierce blaze. 



EVENING. 

J^HE solitary cloud grows dark and wide, 
j^ While distant thunder rumbles in the 
air, — 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



329 



A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide, — 

The lazy cattle are no longer there, 
But homeward come, in long procession slow. 
With many a bleat and many a plaintive low. 

Darker and wider spreading o'er the west, 

Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form, 
And mirrored turrets on the river's breast. 
Tell in advance the coming of a storm, — 
Closer and brighter glares the lightning's 

flash. 
And louder, nearer, sounds the thunder's 
crash. 

The air of evening is intensely hot. 
The breeze feels heated as it fans my 
brows,— 

Kow sullen rain-drops patter down like shot. 
Strike in the grass, or rattle mid the boughs. 

A sultry lull, and then a gust again, — 

And now I see the thick advancing rain I 

It fairly hisses as it drives along. 
And where it strikes breaks up in silvery 
spray 
As if 'twere dancing to the fitful song 
Made by the trees, which twist themselves 
and sway 
In contest with the wind, that rises fast 
Until the breeze becomes a furious blast. 

And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled. 
The clouds lie piled up in the splendid 
west, 
In massive shadow tipped with purplish red. 

Crimson, or gold. The scene is one of rest ; 
And on the bosom of yon still lagoon 
I see the crescent of the pallid moon. 

James Barron Hope. 



IJf THE SUMMER TIME. 

§0 beautiful the day had been, 
I scarce could deem that it would end ; 
To me it was a constant friend, 
A presence rather felt than seen. 

I watched the swallow in its flight, 
I watched the bounding river's flow. 
And caught the sun's delicious glow 
Through all the sleepless hours of light. 

A gentle tremor of the air 

Swept the tree-tops with murmurous sound ; 



While stretched upon the heathery ground 
I kissed my Mother's purple hair. 

And happy memories of the years 
Came wafted on the Summer breeze — 
Like perfumes borne from far-off" seas — 
Till pain was softened into tears. 

It was a bliss to breathe, to move. 
All thoughts of sorrow fled away ; 
Joy was my visitor that day. 
And with him hand in hand came Love. 
John Dennis. 



IVY. 



(An Ancient Christmas Carol.) 

IVY is soft and meek of speech, 
C Against all bale she is bliss. 
Well is he that may her reach. 

Ivy is green, w^ith colors bright. 

Of all trees i)est she is. 

And that I prove will now be right. 

Ivy beneath berries black, 
God grant us all His bliss. 
For there shall bo nothing lack. 

Anonymous. 



THE BHODORA. 

(Lines on being asked, Wlience is tlie flower?) 

X May, when sea-winds pierced our soli- 
tudes, 
I found the fresh rhodora in the woods 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; 
The purple petals fallen in the pool 
Made the black waters with their beauty 
gay; 
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to 
cool. 
And court the flower that cheapens his ar- 
ray. 
Rhodora : if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for 

seeing. 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose, 
I never thought to ask ; I never knew, 
But in my simple ignorance suppose 

The self-same Power that brought me there 
brought you. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 




1 

i 



'And the gentle summer rain 
Cooled the fevered earth again." 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



331 



SUMMER BAIJf. 

TESTERMORN the air was dry 
As the winds of Araby, 
While the sun, with pitiless heat, 
Glared upon the glaring street, . 
And the meadow fountains sealed, 

Till the people, everywhere, 
And the cattle in the field. 

And the birds in middle air, 
And the thirsty little flowers, 

Sent to heaven a fainting prayer 
For the blessed summer showers. 

Not in vain the prayer was said ; 

For at sunset, overhead. 

Sailing from the gorgeous West, 

Came the pioneers, abreast, 

Of a wondrous argosy, 

The Armada of the sky ! 

Far along I saw them sail. 

Wafted by an upper gale. 

Saw them, on their lustrous route. 

Fling a thousand banners out ; 

Yellow, violet, crimson, blue, 

Orange, sapphire ; every hue 

That the gates of heaven put on 

To the sainted eyes of John 

In that hallowed Patmian isle, 

Their skyey pennons wore ; and, while 

I drank the glory of the sight. 

Sunset faded into night. 

Then diverging far and wide, 
To the dim horizon's side. 
Silently and swiftly there. 
Every galleon of the air. 
Manned by some celestial crew. 
Out its precious cargo threw ; 
And the gentle summer rain 
Cooled the fevered earth again. 

Edmund Clarence Stedmax. 



JULY. 

(From "The Earthly Paradise.") 

fAIR was the morn to-day, the blossom's 
scent 
Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees 
With low vexed song from rose to lily went, 
A gentle wind was in the heavy trees, 
And thine eyes shone with joyous memories ; 
Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou, 
And I was happy.— Ah, be happy now \ 



Peace and content without us, love within, 

That hour there was ; now thunder and wild 
rain. 

Have wrapped the cowering world, and fool- 
ish sin. 

And nameless pride, have made us wise in 
vain ; 

Ah ! love, although the morn shall come again. 

And on new rose-buds the new sun shall 
smile. 

Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile? 

E'en now the west grows clear of storm and 

threat. 
But midst the lightning did the fair sun die — 
Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet. 
He cannot waste his life — but thou and I — 
Who knows next morn if this felicity 
My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live. 
This seal of love renewed once more to give? 
William Morris. 



THE VIOLET. 

§ FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet ! 
Thine odor, like a key. 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 
A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 

Blows through that open door. 
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet 
and low. 

And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar from that beloved place. 

And that beloved hour, 
When life hung ripening in love's golden 
grace. 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass. 

The lark sings o'er my head. 
Drowned in the sky — O pass, ye visions, pass I 

I would that I were dead ! 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door. 

From which I ever flee ? 
O vanished door! O love, that art no more ! 

Let my vexed spirit be ! 

O violet ! thy odor, through my brain 
Hath searched, and stung to grief 

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
Thy velvet leaf. 

WnxiAM Wbtmore; Stqry, 



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1. 



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5 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



333 



ARBUTUS. 

F Spring has maids of honor — 
And why should not the Spring, 
With all her dainty service, 
Have thought of some such thing? 



If Spring has maids of honor. 

Arbutus leads the train ; 
A lovelier, a fairer 

The Spring would seek in vain. 

For sweet and subtle fragrance. 
For pink, and pink and white, 

For utmost grace and motion. 
Of vines and vine's delight. 

For joy and love of lovers, 

For joy of young and old, 
No blossom like arbutus 

In all that Springtimes hold. 

The noble maids of honor. 

Who earthly queens obey. 
And courtly service render 

By w^eary night and day, 

Among their royal duties. 
Bouquets of blossoms bring 

Each evening to the banquet. 
And hand them to the king. 

If Spring has maids of honor. 

And a king that is not seen, 
His choicest Springtime favor 

Is arbutus from his queen ! 

Helen Jackson. 

(.'H. H.") 

SOJSTGS OF THE FLOWERS. 

W'E are the sweet Flowers, 
Born of sunny showers ; 
Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty 
saith ; 
Utterance mute and bright 
Of some unknown delight, 
We fill the air with pleasure by our simple 
breath ; 
All who see us, love us ; 
We befit all places ; 
Unto sorrow we give smiles ; and unto graces, 
graces. 

Mark our ways, how noiseless 
^11^ and eweetl^ voiceless, 



Though the March winds pipe to make our 
passage clear ; 
Not a whisper tells 
Where our small seed dwells, 
Nor is known the moment green, when our 
tips appear. 
We thread the earth in silence, 
In silence build our bowers. 
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh 
atop, sweet flowers. 

The dear lumpish baby, 
Humming with the May-bee, 
Hails us with his bright stare, tumbling 
through the grass ; 
The honey-dropping moon, 
On a night in June, 
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the 
bridegroom pass. 
Age, the withered dinger, 
On us mutely gazes. 
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his 
childhood's daisies. 

See, and scorn all duller 
Taste, how heaven loves color. 
How great Nature clearly joys in red and 
green ; 
What sweet thoughts she thinks 
Of violets and pinks. 
And a thousand flashing hues, made solely to 
be seen ; 
See her whitest lilies 
Chill the silver showers. 
And what a red mouth has the rose, the wo- 
man of the flowers ! 

Uselessness divinest 

Of a use the finest 
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; 

Travelers weary-eyed 

Bless us far and wide ; 
Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sud- 
den truce ; 

Not a poor town window 

Loves its sickliest planting, 
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Baby- 
lon's whole vaunting. 

Sage are yet the uses 
Mixed with our sweet juices. 
Whether man or May-fly profit of the balm ; 
As fair fingers healed 
Knights fronj t^h^ olden field, 



334 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



We hold cups of mightiest force to give the 
wildest calm. 
E'en the terror Poison 
Hath its plea for blooming ; 



Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to 
the presuming. 

Leigh Hunt. 



THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 



rr eastern lands they talk in flowers, 
And they tell In a garland their loves and 
cares ; 
Each blossom that blooms in their garden 
bowers, 
On its leaves a mystic language bears. 



Fame's bright star and glory's swell 
In the glossy leaf of the bay are given. 

The silent, soft, and humble heart 
In the violet's hidden sweetness breathes ; 

And the tender soul that cannot part 
A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes. 




** Innocence shines in the lily's bell, 
Pure as the light in its native heaven." 



The rose is a sign of joy and love. 
Young blushing love in its earliest dawn ; 

And the mildness that suits the gentle dove 
From the myrtle's snowy flower is drawn. 

Innocence shines in the lily's bell. 
Pure as the light in its native heaven ; 



The cypress that daily shades the grave, 
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot ; 

And faith, that a thousand ills can brave. 
Speaks in thy blue leaves, forget-me-not. 

Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, 
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. 
James Gates Percival. 



SEJVSITIVE PLAJVT, 



(Extract.) 



t SENSITIVE Plant in the garden grew , 
And the young winds fed it with silver 
dew, 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 



And the Spring arose on the garden fair. 
And the spirit of Love felt everywhere ; 
And each flower and herb on earth's dark 

breast 
Rose from the dream of its wintry rest. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY 



335 



But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet 

want, 
As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 

The snow-drop, and then the violet, 

Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, 

And their breath was mixed with sweet odor, 

sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the instru- 
ment. 

Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall. 
The narcissi, the fairest among them all. 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess. 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 

And the naiad-like lily of the vale, 

Whom youth makes so- fair and passion so 

pale. 
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth, purple, and white, and 

blue. 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 
It was felt like an odor within the sense ; 

And the rose, like a nymph to the bath ad- 
dressed, 

Which unveiled the depth of her glowing 
breast. 

Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air. 

The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up. 
As a Maenad, its moonlight-colored cup, 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye, 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tube- 
rose. 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
Was pranked under boughs of embowering 

blossom. 
With gold and green light slanting through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 
And starry river-buds glided by, 



And around them the soft stream did glide 

and glance 
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and moss. 
Which led through the garden and across. 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze. 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees. 

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells. 

As fair as the fabulous asphodels, 

And flowers which, drooping as day drooped 

too, 
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue. 
To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise, 
The flowers, as an infant's awakening eyes, 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it, 

When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded 

them, 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
Shone smiling to heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 

For each one was interpenetrated 

With the light and odor its neighbor shed. 

Like young lovers whom youth and love make 

dear. 
Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmos- 
phere. 

But the Sensitive Plant, which could give 

small fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the 

root. 
Received more than all, loved more than ever, 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the 

giver — 

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower, 
Radiance and odor are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart full. 
It desires what it has not, the Beautiful : 

The light winds which from un sustaining 

wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings. 
The beams which dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar ; 

The plumed insects swift and free. 
Like golden boats on the sunny sea, 



336 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



1 



Laden with light and odor, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass ; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
Like fire in the flowers, till the sun rides high, 
Then wander like spirits among the spheres 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears; 

The quivering vapors of dim noontide, 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide. 
In which every sound, and odor, and beam. 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 

Each and all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear. 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by. 
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 

And when evening descended from heaven 

above. 
And the earth was all rest, and the air was all 

love. 
And delight, though less bright, was far more 

deep, 
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep, 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects 

were drowned 
In an ocean of dreams without a sound. 
Whose waves never mark, though they ever 

impress 
The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 

Only overhead, the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as day might fail, 
And snatches of his Elysian chant 
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive 
Plant. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

(Extract.) 

§WEET nurslings of the vernal skies, 
Bathed with soft airs, and fed with dew. 
What more than magic in you lies, 

To fill the heart's fond view ? 
In childhood's sports, companions gay ; 
In sorrow, on life's downward way. 
How soothing in our last decay. 
Memorials prompt and true. 

Relics are ye of Eden's bowers. 

As pure, as fragrant and as fair 
As when ye crowned the sunshine hours 

Of happy wanderers there. 
Fallen all beside! the world of life. 
How it is stained with fear and strife ! 
In Reason's world what storms are rife. 

What passions rage and glare ! 



But cheerful and unchanged the while, 
Your first and perfect form ye show ; 

The same that won Eve's matron smile 
In the world's opening glow ; 

The stars of heaven a course are taught 

Too high above our human thought ; 

Ye may be found if ye are sought. 
And as we gaze, we know. Johx Keble. 



IJ^ THE WOODS. 

(From "The Complaint of the Black Knight.") 

ROSE anone, and thought I woulde gone 
Into the woode, to heare the birdes sing, 
Whan that the misty vapour was agone, 
And clear and fair was the morning, 
The dewe also like silver in shining 
Upon the leaves, as any baume swete. 
Till fiery Titan with his persant heat 

Had dried up the lusty licour new 
Upon the herbes in the grene mede. 

And that the floures of many divers hue, 
Upon hir stalks gon for to sprede, 
And for to splay out hir leves in brede 

Againe the sunne, gold burned in his sphere, 

That doune to hem cast his beames clere. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 



SOJfG OF THE ROSE. 

(Attributed to Sappho.) 

F Zeus chose us a king of the flowers in 

his mirth. 
He would call to the rose, and would royal- 
ally crown it ; 
For the rose, ho ! the rose is the grace of the 
earth. 
Is the light of the plants that are growing 
upon it I 
For the rose, ho ! the rose is the eye of the 
flowers, 
Is the blush of the meadows that feel them- 
selves fair. 
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes 
through the bowers 
On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware. 
Ho, the rose breathes of love ! ho, the rose lifts 
the cup 
To the red lips of Cyprus invoked for a 
guest ! 
Ho, the rose having curled 
Its sweet leaves for the world. 
Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up. 
As they laugh to the Wind as it laughs 
from the west. 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Translation. 




For the rose, ho ! the rose is the eye of the flowers, 

Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers.' 



338 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



TO AJ^ EARLY PRIMROSE. 

ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
Was nursed in whirling storms, 
And cradled in the winds. 



Thee, when young Spring first questioned 

Winter's sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year. 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale ; 

Unnoticed and alone 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the 

storms 
Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head. 

Obscure and unobserved ; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her 

blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 
And hardens her to bear 
Serene the ills of life. 

Henry Kirke White. 



so:n'g to the violet. 

flOLET ! sweet violet ! 
Thine eyes are full of tears ; 
Are they wet 
Even yet 
With the thought of other years ; 
Or with gladness are they full, 
For the night so beautiful. 
And longing for those far-off spheres ? 

Loved one of my youth thou wast. 
Of my merry youth. 
And I see 
Tearfully, 
All the fair and sunny past, 

All its openness and truth. 
Ever fresh and green in thee 
As the moss is in the sea. 

Thy little heart, that hath, with love 
Grown colored like the sky above, 
On which thou lookest ever. 
Can it know 
All the woe 
Of hope for what returneth never, 



All the sorrow and the longing 
To these hearts of ours belonging? 

Out on it ! no foolish pining 
For the sky 
Dims thine eye. 
Or for the stars so calmly shining ; 
Like thee, let this soul of mine 
Take hue from that wherefor I long, 
Self-stayed and high, serene and 
strong, 
Not satisfied with hoping, but divine. 

Violet ! dear violet I 
Thy blue eyes are only wet 
With joy and love of Him who sent 
thee, 
And for the fulfilling sense 
Of that glad obedience 
Which made thee all that nature 
meant thee ! 

James Russell Lowell. 



ALMOMD BLOSSOM. 

§LOSSOM of the almond trees, 
April's gift to April's bees. 
Birthday ornament of Spring, 
Flora's ifairest daughterling ; 
Coming when no flowerets dare 
Trust the cruel outer air ; 
When the royal kingcup bold 
Dares not don his coat of gold ; 
And the sturdy black-thorn spray 
Keeps his silver for the May ; 
Coming when no flowerets would, 
Save thy lowly sisterhood, 
Early violets, blue and white. 
Dying for their love of light. 
Almond blossom, sent to teach us 
That the spring-days soon will reach 

us. 
Lest, with longing over-tried. 
We die as the violets died ; 
Blossom, crowding all the tree 
With thy crimson broidery. 
Long before a leaf of green 
O'er the bravest bough is seen ; 
Ah! when winter winds are swing- 
ing 
All thy red bells into ringing. 
With a bee in every bell, 
Almond bloom, we greet thee well. 

Edwin Arnold. 



1 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 




Blossoms. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 



fAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not yet past, 



But you may stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 



340 



MEMS Oi^ BEAUTY. 



What ! were ye born to be 
An hour or half s delight, 
And so to bid good-night ? 

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth 

Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 

And after they have shown their pride. 

Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 

Robert Herrick. 



THE HOLLY TREE. 

§ READER, hast thou ever stood to see 
The Holly Tree ? 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an Intelligence so wise. 
As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
ISTo grazing cattle through their prickly round 

Can reach to wound ; 
But, as they grow where nothing is to fear. 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves ap- 
pear. 

I love to view these things with curious eyes. 

And moralize ; 
And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree 

Can emblems see, 
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant 

rhyme. 
One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad perchance I might ap- 
pear 
Harsh and austere. 
To those who on my leisure would in- 
trude. 
Reserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home among my friends I'd be. 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I day by day 

Would wear away. 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 



And as when all the summer trees are seett 

So bright and green, 
The Holly leaves a sober hue display 

Less bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 
What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree ? 

So serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem among the young and gay 

More grave than they ; 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the Holly Tree. 

Robert Southey. 



THE IVY GREEJ{. 

§H, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green, 
That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween. 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay- 
ed. 
To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years have 
made 
Is a merry meal for him. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no 
wings. 
And a staunch old heart has he ; 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend the huge Oak-tree : 
And slily he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves. 
As he joyously hugs and crawleth around 
The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where grim death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works decay- 
ed. 
And nations have scattered been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant, in its lonely days. 

Shall fatten upon the past ; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 
Creeping on, where time has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Charles Dickexs. 



^ 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



341 




THE SKYLARK. 

^^ -▼ 'OR so I have seen a lark rising from Ms bed of grass, and soaring upwards, singing as 
-#t^ he rises, and hopes to get to heaven, and climb above the clouds ; but the poor bird 
A was beaten back w ith the loud sighings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irreg- 
ular and inconstant, descending more at every breath of the tempest, than it could re- 
cover by the liberation and frequent weighing of his wings : till the little creature was 
forced to sit down and pant, and stay till the storm was over ; and then it made a prosperous 
flight, and did rise and sing, as if it had learned music and motion from an angel, as he passed 
sometimes through the air, about his ministries here below. 

Jereaiy Taylor. 



342 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 
TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORKmG DEW, 



\\ 



WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can 
tears 
Speak grief in you 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 

Teemed her refreshing dew? 
Alas ! ye have not known that shower 
That mars a flower; 



Speak, whimpering younglings, and make 
known 
The reason why 
Ye droop and weep ; 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby? 
Or that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet ? 



it 




" Such pretty flowers, like tc 
Speaking by tears before y^ 



like to orphans young, 
^^'^"" "ou have a tongue.' 



Nor felt the unkind 

Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years, 

Or warped as we 

Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before you have 
tongue. 



Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this ? 
No, no ; this sorrow shown 
)iY your tears shed. 
Would have this lecture read : 
'•That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears 
brought forth." 

Robert Hermck. 



A DROP OF DEW. 

^EE, how the orient dew. Yet careless of its mansion new, 

W Shed from the bosom of the morn For the clear region where 'twas born, 

Into the blowing roses, Round in itself encloses, 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



343 



And in its little globe's extent 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 
How it the purple flower does slight, 

Scarce touching where it lies ; 

But gazing back upon the skies. 



So the soul, that drop, that ray, 

Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 

Could it within the human flower be seen, 
Remembering still its former height, 

Shuns the sweet leaves, the blossoms green; 




" See, liuw the orient dew, 
Shed from the bosom of the morn.' 



Shines with a mournful light, 
Like its own tear. 
Because so long divided from the sphere ; 
Eestless it rolls, and unsecure, 
Trembling, lest it grow impure. 
Till the warm sun pities its pain, 
And to the skies exhales it back again. 



And recollecting its own light. 
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts express 
The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
In how coy a figure wound, 
Every way it turns away ; 
So the world excluding round, 
Yet receiving in the day ; 



344 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Dark beneath, but bright above ; 

Here disdaining^ here in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go ; 

How girt and ready to ascend ; 
Moving but on a point below, 

It all about does upward bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil. 
White and entire, although congealed and 

chill ; 
Congealed on earth ; but does, dissolving, run 
Into the glories of the almighty Sun. 

Andrew Marvell. 



HTMjV to the FLO n^ERS 

^AYSTAES! that ope your eyes with 
\f) morn, to twinkle 

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle 
As a libation. 

Ye matin worshipers ! who, bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, G-od's lidless eye, 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high. 

Ye bright mosaics ; that with storied beauty 

The floor of nature's temple tasselate. 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that 
swingeth. 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the fields and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and 
column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn. 
Which God hath planned. 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
supply ; 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ 
thunder. 
Its dome the sky. 

There as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or stretched up- 
on the sod, 



Awed by the silence, reverently I ponder 
The ways of God. 

Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living 
preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor 
" Weep w^ithout woe, and blush without a 
crime," 
Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
Your lore sublime. 

" Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory. 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours; 
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers ! " 

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Ar- 
tist, 
With which thou paintest Nature's wide- 
spread hall. 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all. 

Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for 
pleasure ; 
Blooming o'er field and wave by day and 
night, 
From every source your sanction bids me 
treasure 
Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages! w^hat instructors hoary 
For such a world of thought could furnish 
scope 
Each fading calyx a memento rnori, 
Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection : 
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in 
earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
A second birth. 

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining. 

Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
M}^ soul would find, in flowers of thy ordain- 
ing. 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 

Horace Smith. 



iPOEMS OF BEAUTY. 



345 



TO DAFFODILS, 

fAIR daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has not attained his noon ; 
Stay, stay, 
Until the hasting day 
Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you. 

We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you, or anything. 
We die, 
As your hours do, and dry 
Away, 
Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew 
Ne'er to be found again. 

Robert Herrick. 



TO A MOTJJfTAIJf DAISY. 

(On Turning One Down with the Plow in April, 1786.) 

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my power, 
Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! 'tis no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast ; 
When upward springing, blithe to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter, biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce reared above thy parent earth 

Thy slender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield : 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane. 
Adorns the histy stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 



There in the scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade : 
By love's simplicity betrayed. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard. 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred ; 

Unskillful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and winds blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er. 

Such fate to sufiering worth is given. 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink. 
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruined, sink. 

Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's plowshare drives, elate. 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight 

Shall be thy doom ! 

Robert Burns. 



THE GEOVE. 

TJTAIL, old patrician trees, so great and 

K| goodl 

Hail, ye plebian underwood ! 

Where the poetic birds rejoice. 
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food 

Pay with their grateful voice. 



Here IS'ature does a house for me erect, 
Nature, the wisest architect ! 

Who those fond artists does despise. 
That can the fair and living trees neglect. 

Yet the dead timber prize. 

ABR.\nAir Co\AXEY. 



uii!,i!flii;i"'iriii; \k t il«l!l''ir 




Daffodils. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



347 



DAFFODILS. 

WANDEEED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and 
hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils ; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay ; 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but 

they 
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee ; 
A poet could not but be gay. 
In such a jocund company. 
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had 

brought. 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude. 
And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth. 



THE WOOD GIAJVT. 

fHOM Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome, 
From Mad to Saco River, 
For patriarchs of the primal wood 
We sought with vain endeavor. 

And then we said : " The giants old 

Are lost beyond retrieval. 
This pigmy growth the axe has spared 

Is not the wood primeval. 

" Look where we will o'er vale and hill. 

How idle are our searches. 
For broad-girthed maples, wide-limbed oaks, 

Centennial pines and birches ! 

" Their tortured limbs the axe and saw 
Have changed to beams and trestles ; 

They rest in walls, they float on seas. 
They rot in sunken vessels. 

" This shorn and wasted mountain land 
Of underbrush and boulder — 



Who thinks to see its full-grown tree 
Must live a century older." 

At last to us a woodland path. 

To open sunset leading. 
Revealed the Anakim of pines 

Our wildest wish exceeding. 

Alone, the level sun before, 

Below, the lake's green islands, 
Beyond, in misty distance dim. 

The rugged Northern Highlands. 

Dark Titan on his Sunset Hill 

Of time and change defiant ! 
How dwarfed the common woodland seemed, 

Before the old time giantc 

What marvel that in simpler days 

Of the world's early childhood. 
Men crowned with garlands, gifts and praise. 

Such monarchs of the wild-wood ? 

That Tyrian maids with flower and song 
Danced through the hill-grove's spaces. 

And hoary-bearded Druids found 
In woods their holy places ? 

With somewhat of that Pagan awe 
With Christian reverence blending, 

We saw our pine tree's mighty arms 
Above our heads extending. 

We heard his needle's mystic rune, 

Now rising and now dying, 
As erst Dodona's priestess heard 

The oak leaves prophesying. 

Was it the half unconscious moan 

Of one apart and mateless, 
The weariness of unshared power, 

The loneliness of greatness ? 

Oh, dawns and sunsets, lend to him 

Your beauty and your wonder ; 
Blithe sparrow, sing thy Summer song 

His solemn shadow under ! 

Play lightly on his slender keys. 

Oh wind of Summer, waking 
For hills like these, the sound of seas 

On far off" beaches breaking ! 

And let the eagle and the crow 

Rest on his still green branches, 
When winds shake down his Winter snow 

In silver avalanches. 



348 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



The brave are braver for their cheer, 
The strongest need assurance, 



The sigh of longing makes not less 
The lesson of endurance. 

John Greexleaf Whittier. 



TO THE BUTTERFLY. 

^HILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that 
VS* flight, crept 

Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and 
light ; slept. 




!l" 'ill 
,_^ .J llll/J.l/L .j/ 



•And wlierc tl-v- ..w.,v.io w: i'..;-.iwisc unfol( 
Quaff fragrant nectar from tiieir cups of gold." 



And where the flowers of Paradise unfold. 
Quaff" fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. 
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, 
Expand and shut with silent ecstasy I 



And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day! 

Samuel Rogers. 



THE RAIXBOW. 

/^ff\ Y heart leaps up when I be- Or let me die ! 

\tl hold The Child is Father of the Man ; 

A rainbow in the sky ; And I could wish my days to be 

So was it when my life began ; Bound each to each by natural 

So is it, now I am a nian ; piety. 

So be it when I shall grow old, William Wordsworth. 






rOEMS OF BEAUTY. 



349 



TEE XIGHTm'GALE. 

'^^IS sweet to hear the merry lark, 
"P That bids a blithe good-morrow, 

But sweeter to hark, in the twink- 
ling dark, 
To the soothing song of sorrow. 

Oh! nightingale, what does she ail? 

And is she sad or jolly ? 
For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth 

So like to melancholy. 

The merry lark, he soars on high, 
Ko worldly thought o'ertakes hira, 

He sings aloud to the calm blue sky. 
And the daylight that awakes him. 

As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay. 

The nightingale is trilling, 
With feeling bliss, no less than his, 

Her little heart is thrilling. 

Yet, ever and anon, a sigh 
Peers through her lavish mirth ; 

For the lark's bold song is of the sky, 
And hers is of the earth. 

By night and day she tunes her lay. 

To drive away all sorrow ; 
For bliss, alas! to-night must pass, 

And woe may come to-morrow ! 

Hartley Coleridge. 



THE EARLY BLUE- BIRD. 

ELUEBIRD ! on yon leafless tree, 
Dost thou carol thus to me : 
" Spring is coming ! Spring is here !" 
Says't thou so, my birdie dear? 
What is that, in misty shroud, 
Stealing from the darkened cloud ? 
Lo! the snow-flakes' gathering mound 
Settles o'er the whitened ground. 
Yet thou singest, blithe and clear : 
" Spring is coming ! Spring is here I" 

Strik'st thou not too bold a strain ? 
Winds are piping o'er the plain ; 
Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky 
With a black and threatening eye *, 
Urchins, by the frozen rill. 
Wrap their mantles closer still ; 
Y^on poor man, with doublet old, 
Doth he shiver at the cold? 
Hath he not a nose of blue ? 
Tell me, birdling, tell me true. 

Spring's a maid of mirth and glee, 
Kosy wreaths and revelry ; 



Hast thou wooed some winged love 
To a nest in verdant grove ? 
Sung to her of greenwood bower. 
Sunny skies that never lower? 
Lured her with thy promise fair 
Of a lot that knows no care ? 
Pr'ythee, bird, in coat of blue, 
Though a lover, tell her true. 

Ask her if, when storms are long. 
She can sing a cheerful song ? 
When the rude winds rock the tree. 
If she'll closer cling to thee ? 
Then the blasts that sweep the sky, 
Unappalled shall pass thee by ; 
Though thy curtained chamber show 
Sittings of untimely snow. 
Warm and glad thy heart shall be ; 
Love shall make it Spring for thee. 

LyDL\ HuXTLEY SlGOURNEY. 



SOMG. 

(From Cyinbeline, Act II., Scene 3.) 

MARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate 
sings. 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chalic'd flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin : 
My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise. 

William Shakspere. 



so:n'G: gayety of jyature. 

f]pHE sun is careering In glory and might, 
"p 'Mid the deep blue sky and the cloudlets 

white ; 
The bright wave is tossing its foam on high. 
And the summer breezes go lightly by ; 
The air and the water dance, glitter, and play, 
And why should not I be as merry as they? 

The linnet is singing the wild wood through ; 
The fawn's bounding footstep skims over the 

dew ; 
The butterfly flits round the flowering tree, 
And the cowslip and bluebell are bent by the 

bee ; 
All the creatures that dwell in the forest are 

gay, 

And why should not I be as merry as they ? 
Mary Rlssell Mitford. 




'^ 'Come up, come up,' they seem to say, 

Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



351 



BIRDS IM SUMMER, 

TJTOW pleasant the life of a bird must be. 
S[ Flitting about in each leafy tree ; 
In the leafy trees so broad and tall, 
Like a green and beautiful palace-hall, 
With its airy chambers, light and boon. 
That open to sun and stars and moon, 
That open unto the bright blue sky. 
And the frolicsome winds as they wander by. 

They have left their nest in the forest bough ; 
Those homes of delight they need not now ; 
And the young and the old, they wander out, 
And traverse the green world round about ; 
And hark ! at the top of this leafy hall, 
How one to the other they lovingly call : 
" Come up, come up," they seem to say, 
" Where the topmost twigs in the breezes 
sway." 

" Come up, come up, for the world is fair, 
Where the merry leaves dance in the summer 

air." 
And the birds below give back the cry : 
" We come, we come, to the branches high!" 
How pleasant the life of a bird must be, 
Flitting about in a leafy tree ; 
And away through the air what joy to go, 
And look on the bright green earth below. 

How pleasant the life of a bird must be, 
Skimming about on the breezy sea. 
Cresting the billows like silvery foam. 
And then wheeling away to its clift-built 

home! 
What joy it must be, to sail, up-borne 
By a strong, free wing, through the rosy 

morn. 
To meet the young sun face to face, 
And pierce like a shaft the boundless space ! 

How pleasant the life of a bird must be. 
Wherever it listeth there to flee ; 
To go, when a joyful fancy calls. 
Dashing adown 'mid the waterfalls. 
Then wheeling about with its mate at play, 
Above and below, and among the spray. 
Hither and thither, with screams as wild 
As the laughing mirth of a rosy child ! 

What a joy it must be, like a living breeze. 
To flutter about 'mong the flowering trees ; 
Lightly to soar, and to see beneath 
The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, 
And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, 
22 



That gladdens some fairy region old I 
On mountain tops, on the billowy sea, 
On the leafy stems of the forest tree. 
How pleasant the life of a bird must be. 

Maky Ho WITT. 



TO A JVIGHTIJ^GALE. 

fWEET bird ! that sing'st away the earth- 
ly hours. 
Of winter's past or coming void of care. 
Well pleased with delights which present 
are. 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling 

flowers ; 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
And what dear gifts on thee He did not 
spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songsi, 
Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and 
wrongs. 
And lift a reverent eye and thought tc 
heaven ? 
Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost 

raise 
To airs of spheres, and, yes, to angels' lays. 
WnxiAM Drummond. 



THE SKYLARK. 

BIRD of the wilderness. 
Blithesome and cumberless. 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness. 
Blest is thy dwelling-place ; 

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay and loud, 
Far in the downy cloud, 

TiOve gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
Where, on thy dewy wing. 
Where art thou journeying ? 

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
O'er moor and mountain green. 

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 
Over the cloudlet dim, 
Over the rainbow's rim. 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ; 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Lpw in the heather blooms j 



352 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be I 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place; 

Oh. to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 




James Hogg. 



ODE TO THE CUCKOO. 
JJAIL, beauteous stranger of the 



grove ! 

Thou messenger of spring! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 
And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 
Thy certain voice we hear; 

Hast thou a star to guide thy path. 
Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant : with thee 

I hail the time of tlowers. 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bo\\ ers. 

The schoolboy wandering through the 
woods, 

To pull the primrose gay. 
Starts, the new voice of spring to hoar, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time tlie pea puts on the bloom, 
Thou lliest thy vocal vale, 



An annual guest in other lands, 
Another spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No winter in thy year! 

Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the spring. 

John Logan. 



ROBERT OF LIXCOLjY. 

K^ ERKILY swinging on briar and weed, 
t\t\ Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 
Robert of Lincoln is telling his. name: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours. 
Hidden among the summer flowers, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed. 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest; 
Hear him call in his merry note : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink, 
Look, what a nice new coat is mine ; 
Sure there was never a bird so fine, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife. 
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown 
wings, 
Passing at home a patient life. 
Broods in the grass while her husband 
sings : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link. 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she ; 

One weak chirp is her only note. 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he. 
Pouring boasts from his littie throat I 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Never was I afraid of man ; 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



353 



Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ; 
There, as the mother sits all day, 
Robert is singing with all his might : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Nice, good wife that never goes out. 
Keeping house while I frolic about, 
Chee, chee, chee. 



Robert of Lincoln at length is made 

Sober with work, and silent with care ; 
Oft' is his holiday garment laid. 
Half forgotten that merry air : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and nestlings lie, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 
Fun and frolic no more he knows •, 



life. 




" Robert of Lincoln is telling his name 
* Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link.' " 



Soon as the little ones chip the shell. 
Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well. 
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me, 
Chee, chee, chee. 



Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; 
Off" he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
Bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
When yon can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



TO AJV IJVSECT. 



LOVE to hear thine earnest voice. 
Wherever thou art hid. 
Thou testy little dogmatist, 

Thou pretty Katydid ! 
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks — 

Old gentlefolks are they — 
Thou says't an undisputed thing 

In such a solemn way. 



Thou art a female. Katydid : 
J kuow it b^ the trilj 



That quivers through thy piercing 
notes, 

So petulant and shrill ; 
I think there is a knot of you 

Beneath the hollow tree ; 
A knot of spinster Katydids — 

Do Katydids drink tea? 

O tell me where did Katy live, 

And what did Katy do ? 
4.nd was she ver^ fair and young^ 



354 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



And yet so wicked too ? 
Did Katy love a nauglity man, 

Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 
I warrant Katy did no more 

Than many a Kate has done. 

Dear me ! I'll tell you all about 

My fuss with little Jane, 
And Ann, with whom I used to walk 

So often down the lane, 
And all that tore their locks of black, 

Or wet their eyes of blue ; 
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 

What did poor Katy do ? 

Ah no ! the living oak shall crash. 
That stood for ages still. 



The rock shall rend its mossy base, 

And thunder down the hill, 
Before the little Katydid 

Shall add one word, to tell 
The mystic story of the maid 

Whose name she knows so well. 

Peace to the ever murmuring race ! 

And when the latest one 
Shall fold in death her feeble wings 

Beneath the Autumn sun. 
Then shall she raise her fainting voice, 

And lift her drooping lid ; 
And then the child of future years 

Shall hear what Katy did. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 




" But all night long . ^ 

Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain. 



SOJVJVET: TO THE MOCKIJ^'G-BIBD. 
iW: TNGED mimic of the woods ! thou mot- Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe ; 
\iilp ley fool ! 

Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? 
Thifle ever ready notes of ridicule 



Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, 
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school ; 
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, 



I 
i 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



355 



Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! 
For such thou art by day ; but all night long, 
Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn 
strain, 
As if thou didst, in this thy moonlight song, 
Lilfe to the melancholy Jacques coinplain. 
Musing on folly, falsehood, vice and wrong. 
And sighing for thy motley coat again. 

Richard Henry Wilde. 



THE CHAMBERED JYAUTILUS. 

(From " The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.") 

fms is the ship of pearl, which poets 
feign. 
Sails the unshadowed main. 
The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings. 
And coral reefs lie bare. 

Where the cold Sea-maids rise to sun their 
streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell, 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. 

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 

Before thee lies revealed, 

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed. 



Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew. 

He left the past years ; dwelling for the new. 

Stole with soft step its shining archway 

through. 
Built up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew 

the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by 

thee. 
Child of the wandering sea. 
Cast from her lap forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
While on mine ear it rings. 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a 

voice that sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul. 
As the swift seasons roll ! 
Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unrest- 
ing sea! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 




fi^Si 



There is a Power whose care 

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast.' 



TO A WATERFOWL. 

HITHER midst falling dew. Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pur- 

While glow the heavens with the last sue 

steps of day, Thy solitary way ? 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Vainly the fowler's eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee 
wrong, 
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night Is near. 



And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home and 
rest. 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall 
bend. 
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven* 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my 
heart. 

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone. 

Guides through the boundless sky thy cer- 
tain flight. 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cltllen Bryant. 



FROM "THE PLAJfTIJ^G OF THE APPLE TBEEr 
<iflx^<uX^ /hi'^^ a^ ^n^cL^i.^.^^ /i-C/^xju^^yM ^m)1\\<jS 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



357 



THE SUMMER BIRDS, 



^WEET warblers of the sunny hours, 
)^ Forever on the wing, 
I love them, as I love the flowers. 

The sunlight, and the spring. 
They come like pleasant memories, 

In summer's joyous time, 
And sing their gushing melodies 

As I would sing a rhyme. 

In the green and quiet places 

Where the golden sunlight falls, 
We sit with smiling faces 

To list their silver calls ; 
And when their holy anthems 

Come pealing through the air, 
Our hearts leap forth to meet them, 

With a blessing and a prayer. 



For never can my soul forget 

The loved of other years ; 
Their memories fill my spirit yet, 

I've kept them green with tears ; 
And their singing greets my heart at times, 

As in the days of yore, 
Though their music, and their loveliness 

Are o'er, forever o'er. 

And often, when the mournful night 

Comes with alow, sweet tune. 
And sets a star on every height. 

And one beside the moon, 
When not a sound of wind or wave 

The holy stillness mars, 
I look above, and strive to trace 

Their dwellings in the stars. 




"Sweet warblers of the sunny hours, 
I love thenn as I love the flowers. 
The sunhght and the spring." 



Amid the morning's fragrant dew, 

Amid the mists of even, 
They warble on as if they drew 

Their music down from heaven. 
How sweetly sounds each mellow note, 

Beneath the moon's pale ray, 
When dying zephyrs rise and float, 

Like lovers' sighs, away ! 

Like shadowy spirits seen at eve, 

Among the tombs they glide ; 
Where sweet, pale forms for which we grieve 

Lie sleeping side by side. 
They break with song the solemn hush 

Where peace reclines her head, 
And link their lays with mournful thoughts 

That cluster round the dead. 



The birds! the birds of summer hours! 

They bring a gush of glee 
To the child among the fragrant flowers, 

To the sailor on the sea. 
We hear their thrilling voices 

In their swift and airy flight. 
And the inmost heart rejoices 

With a calm and pure delight. 

In the stillness of the starlight hours, 

When I am with the dead. 
Oh, may they flutter 'mid the flowers 

That blossom o'er my head, 
And pour their songs of gladness forth 

In one melodious strain, 
O'er lips whose broken melody 

Shall never sing again. A^ielia B. Welby. 




Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



TO A SKYLARK. 

'AIL to thee, blithe spirit I 
l^[ Bird thou never wert, 
That from lieaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated 
art. 

Higher still and higher 
From the earth thou springest 

Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 

And singing still dost soar, and soar- 
ing ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run. 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is 
just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven 

In the broad daylight, 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy 
shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is 
there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud ; 
As, when night is bare. 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and 
heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see. 
As from thy presence showers a rain 
of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought. 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it 
heeded not. 



Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which over- 
flows her bower. 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which 
screen it from the view. 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered. 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet 
these heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass. 
Pain-awakened flowers. 

All that ever was 
Joyous and clear, and fresh, thy mu- 
sic doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine ; 
I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture 
so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal. 

Or triumphal chant. 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein w^e feel there is some 
hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What flelds, or waves, or mountains. 

What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? What 
ignorance of pain ? 

With thy clear, keen joyance, 

Languor cannot be ; 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee ; 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad 
satiety. 



3G0 



^OEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such 
a crystal stream ? 

We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not ; 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell 
of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear, 
If we were things horn 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever 
should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner 
of the ground. 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 

From my lips would flow. 
The world would listen then, as I am 
listening now. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



THE boboli:n'k. 

EOBOL^K ! that in the meadow. 
Or beneath the orchard's shadow, 
Keepest up a constant rattle 
Joyous as my children's prattle, 
W^elcome to the north again ! 
Welcome to mine ear thy strain. 
Welcome to mine eye the sight 
Of thy buff", thy black and white. 
Brighter plumes may greet the sun 
By the banks of Amazon ; 
Sweeter tones may weave the spell, 
Of enchanting Philomel; 
But the tropic bird would fail, 
And the English nightingale, 
If we should compare their worth 
With thine endless, gushing mirth. 

When the ides of May are past, 
June and Summer nearing fast, 



While from depths of blue above 
Comes the mighty breath of love. 
Calling out each bud and flower 
With resistless, secret power, — 
Waking hope and fond desire, 
Kindling the erotic fire, — 
Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 
With mysterious pleasing themes ; 
Then, amid the sunlight clear 
Floating in the fragrant air. 
Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure 
By thy glad ecstatic measure. 

A single note, so sweet and low, 
liike a full heart's overflow. 
Forms the prelude ; but the strain 
Gives no such tone again, 
For the wild and saucy song 
Leaps and skips the notes among. 
With such quick and sportive play, 
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 

Gayest songster of the Spring! 
Thy melodies before me bring 
Visions of some dream-built land. 
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, 
I might walk the livelong day, 
Embosomed in perpetual May. 
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ; 
For thee a tempest never blows ; 

But when our northern Summer's o'er. 
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 
The wild rice lifts its airy head. 
And royal feasts for thee are spread. 
And when the Winter threatens there, 
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. 
But bear thee to more southern coasts, 
Far beyond the reach of frosts. 

Bobolink ! still may thy gladness 
Take from me all taints of sadness ; 
Fill my soul with trust unshaken 
In that Being who has taken 
Care for every living thing. 
In Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring. 
Thomas Hell. 



SOKG OF THE KIVEB. 

/|NLEAR and cool, clear and cool, 

>@/ By laughing shallow and dreaming pool; 

Cool and clear, cool and clear, 

By shining shingle and foaming weir ; 

Under the crag where the ouzel sings. 



POmiS of :feEAUTY. 



§Gl 




Clear and cool, clear and cool, 

By laughing shallow and dreaming pool.' 



And the ivied wall where the church-bell 

rings, 
Undefiled for the undefiled ; 
Play by me, bathe by me, mother and child. 

Dank and foul, dank and foul, 

By the smoke-grimed town in its murky 

cowl ; 
Foul and dank, foul and dank, 
By wharf, and sewer, and slimy bank ; 
Darker and darker the further I go. 
Baser and baser the richer I grow ; 



Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? 
Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and 
child. 

Strong and free, strong and free. 

The flood-gates are open, away to the sea! 

Free and strong, free and strong, 

Cleansing my streams as I hurry along 

To the golden sands and the leaping bar. 

And the taintless tide that awaits me 

afar. 
As I lose myself in the infinite main, 



361 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned 

again, 
Undefiled, for the undefiled ; 
Play by me, bathe by me, mother and child. 
Charles Kingsley. 




Charles Kingsley. 



THE SHADED WATER. 

WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the 
noise 
And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke, 
I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys 

And sit me down beside this little brook ; 
The waters have a music to mine ear 
It glads me much to hear. 

It is a quiet glen, as you may see. 
Shut in from all intrusion by the trees. 

That spread their giant branches, broad and 
free. 
The silent growth of many centuries ; 

And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, 
A sabbath of the woods. 

Few know its quiet shelter, — now, like me, 

Do seek it out with such a fond desire, 
Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree. 
And listening as the voiceless leaves res- 
pire,— 
When the far-traveling breeze, done wander- 
ing. 
Rests here his weary wing. 

And all the day, with fancies ever new. 
And sweet companions from their boundless 
store, 



Of merry elves bespangled all with dew 
Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, 

Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, 
I fling the hours away. 

A gracious couch— the root of an old oak 
Whose branches yield it moss and canopy — 

Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke 
Secure, shall never be resigned by me ; 

It hangs above the stream that Idly flies. 
Heedless of any eyes. 

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward 

bent. 
Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour 
While every sense on earnest mission sent, 
Returns, thought-laden, back with bloom 
and flower 
Pursuing, though rebuked by those who 
moil, 
A profitable toil. 

And still the waters, trickling at my feet. 
Wind on their way with gentlest melody. 

Yielding sweet music, which the leaves re- 
peat. 
Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by, — 

Yet not so rudely as to send one sound 
Through the thick copse around. 

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest 
Hangs o'er the archway opening through 
the trees, 
Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, press- 
ed 
On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries, — 
And with awakened vision upward bent, 
I watch the firmatnent. 

How like its sure and undisturbed retreat — 
Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm 

To the pure waters trickling at my feet 
The bending trees that overshade my form ! 

So far as sweetest things of earth may seem 
Like to those of which we dream. 

Such, to my mind, is the philosophy 
The young bird teaches, who, with sudden 
flight. 

Sails far into the blue that spreads on high. 
Until I lose him from my straining sight, — 

With a most lofty discontent to fly 
Upward, from earth to sky. 

William Gilmore Simms. 



I 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



363 



a wet sheet aj{d a flow- 
IjYG sea. 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling" sail, 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While like the eagle free. 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old England on the lee. 

" O for a soft and gentle wind !" 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my 
boys. 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home. 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners — 

The wind is piping loud ; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashing free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is. 

Our heritage the sea. 

AuLAJf Cunningham. 



STORM AT JflGHT 

(From "CMlde Harold." Canto III.) 

fHE sky is changed! — and such a changel 
Oh night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 

strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags 

among, 
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone 

cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a 

tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty 

shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her 

aloud ! 

And this is in the night:— Most glorious 

night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,— 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 



How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 

And the big rain comes dancing to the 
earth ! 

And now again 'tis black, — and now, the 
glee 

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain- 
mirth. 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- 
quake's birth. 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his 
way between 

Heights which appear as lovers who have 
parted 

In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 

That they can meet no more, though brok- 
en-hearted ; 

Though in their souls, which thus each 
other thwarted, 

Love was the very root of the fond rage 

Which blighted their life's bloom, and then 
departed : — 

Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves 
to wage. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath 

cleft his way. 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his 

stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their 

play, 
And fling their thunder bolts from hand to 

hand. 
Flashing and cast around; of all the band, 
The brightest through these parled hills 

hath fork'd 
His lightnings — as if he did understand. 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever 

therein lurk'd. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake light- 
nings! ye! 

With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a 
soul. 

To make these felt and feeling, well may be 

Things that have made me watchful ; the far 
roll 

Of your departing voices, is the knoll 

Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 

But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? 

Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye flnd, at length, like eagles, some 
high nest? 

^EOBGE Gordon, Lord Byron, 




Your murmurs bring the pleasant breatlj 
Qf many a sylvan scene," 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



365 



WOODLA^'D STREAMS. 

TOUR murmurs bring the pleasant 
breath 
Of many a sylvan scene ; 
They tell of sweet and sunny vales, 

And woodlands wildly green ; 
Ye cheer the lonely heart of age, 

Ye fill the exile's dreams 
With hope, and home, and memory, 
Ye unforgotten streams. 

The bards, the ancient bards, who sang 

When thought and song were new, 
O mighty waters ! did they learn 

Their minstrelsy from you ? 
For still, methinks, your voices blend 

With all their glorious themes. 
That flow forever fresh and free 

As the eternal streams. 

Well might the sainted seer of old, 

Who trod the tearless shore, 
Like many w^aters deem the voice 

The angel hosts adore ! 
For still, where deep the rivers roll. 

Afar the torrent gleams. 
Our spirits hear the voice of God, 

Amid the rush of streams. 

Frances Bro^-n. 



Bursting buds begin to blossom ; 
To her very soul 'tis stealing, 
All the springs of life unsealing ; 
Singing stream and rushing river 
Drink it in, and praise the Giver 
Of the blessed rain. 

Laura A. Boies. 



THE RAIJf. 

'E knew it w^ould rain, for all the morn 
A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
Was lowering its golden buckets down 
Into the vapory amethyst. 

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers — 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea — 
To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 

We knew it would rain, for the poplars 
showed 
The whites of their leaves, the amber grain 
Shrunk in the wind, and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain ! 

Eichard Hexry Stoddard. 



THE RAIX, 

Tj IKE a gentle joy descending, 
Jm To the earth a glory lending, 

Comes the pleasant rain ; 
Fairer now the flowers are growing, 
Fresher now the winds are blowing. 

Gladder waves the grain ; 
Grove and forest, field and mountain. 
Bathing in the crystal fountain, 
Drinking in the inspiration, 
Offer up a glad oblation ; 
All around, about, above us, 
Things we love, the things that love 
us, 

Bless the gentle rain. 

Beautiful, and still, and holy, 
Like the spirit of the lowly, 

Comes the quiet rain ; 
'Tis a fount of joy distilling. 
And the lyre of earth is trilling. 

Swelling to a strain ; 
J^ature opens wide her bosom, 



THE FOTJKTATX. 

JiNTO the sunshine, 
\ Full of the light. 
Leaping and flashing 
From morn till night ! 

Into the moonlight. 
Whiter than snow. 

Waving so flower-like 
When the winds blow ! 

Into the starlight. 

Rushing in spray, 
Happy at midnight, 

Happy by day ! 

Ever In motion 

Blithesome and cheery. 
Still climbing heavenward, 

Never aweary ; 

Glad of all weathers. 
Still seeming best. 

Upward or downward, 
Motion thy rest ; 

Full of a nature 
J^othing can tame, 



3G6 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Changed every moment, 
Ever the same ; 

Ceaseless aspiring, 
Ceaseless content. 

Darkness or sunshine 
Thy element ; 



Glorious fountain ! 

Let my heart be 
Fresh, changeful, constant. 

Upward, like thee ! 

Jaimes Russell Lo\vell. 




" Glorious fountain ! Let my heart be 
Fresh, changeful, constant, upward, like thee !" 



THE VOICE OF Js^ATVBE, 

(From "The Task," Book I.) 



OR rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
)-ei Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds. 
That sweep the skirts of some far-spreading 

wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
The dash of Ocean on his winding shore, 
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; 
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast. 



And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. 
Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they 

fall 
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
In matted grass, that with a livelier green 
Betrays the secret of their silent course, 




POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



367 



Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 
But animated nature sweeter still, 
To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 




sub- 



WlLLIAM COWPER. 

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
The livelong night; nor these alone, whose 

notes 
Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, 
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim 

lime 
In still repeated circles, screaming loud, 
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl 
That hails the rising moon, have charms for 

me. 
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh. 
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever 

reigns. 
And only there, please highly for their sakes. 

WiT.TJAM CoWPER. 



THE WAYSIDE SPBIJVG. 

fAlR dweller by the dusty way, 
Bright saint within a mossy shrine. 
The tribute of a heart to-day. 
Weary and worn is thine. 

The earliest blossoms of the year, 
The sweet-brier and the violet, 

The pious hand of spring has here 
Upon thine altar set. 
^3 



And not alone to thee is given 
The homage of the pilgrim's knee, 

But oft the sweetest birds of heaven 
Glide down and sing to thee. 

Here daily from his beechen cell. 
The hermit squirrel steals to drink. 

And flocks, which cluster to their beU^ 
Recline along thy brink. 



And 



blocks his 



here the wagoner 
wheels. 
To quaflf the cooling, generous boon ; 
Here, from the sultry harvest-fields. 
The reapers rest at noon. 

And oft the beggar, masked with tan, 
With rusty garments gray with 
dust. 

Here sits and dips his little can, 
And breaks his scanty crust. 



And 



thy whispering 



lulled beside 
stream. 
Off drops to slumber unawares. 
And sees the angels of his dream 
Upon celestial stairs. 




Thomas Buchanan Read. 

Dear dweller by the dusty way, 
Thou saint within a mossy shrine, 

The tribute of a heart to-day 
Weary and worn is thine. 

Thomas Buchanan Bead. 



368 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAJf. 

(From "Childe Harold," Canto IV.) 

deep and dark blue 



Tg)OLL on, thou 

,K\ Ocean — roll ! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in 
vain; 

Man marks the earth with ruin — his con- 
trol 

Stops with the shore;— upon the watery plain 



Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 

spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth: — there let 

him lay. 




Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll!" 



The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth re- 
main 
A shadow of man^s ravage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 
groan, 
"Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and 
unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy 
fields 

Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 

And shake him from thee ; the vile strength 
he wields 

For earth's destruction thou dost all de- 
spise, 



The armaments which thunderstrike the 

walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yest of waves which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Tra- 
falgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 
thee — 
' Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 
they ? 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



369 



Thy waters wasted them while they were 

free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts^ — not so 

thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves, play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 

brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest 

now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 

form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or 

storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark heaving ; — boundless, endless and sub- 
lime — 



The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each 
zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathom- 
less, alone. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a 

boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear ; 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do 

here. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 




" Up signal then, and let us bail 

1 on looming phantom as we pass ! " 

PASSIJVG THE ICEBERGS. 

FEARLESS shape of brave device. These are the buccaneers that fright 

Our vessel drives through mist and rain, The middle sea with dreams of wrecks, 



Between the floating fleets of ice, 
The navies of the northern main. 

These arctic ventures, blindly hurled. 
The proofs of Nature's olden force. 
Like fragments of a crystal world 

Long shattered from its skyey course. 



And freeze the south winds in their flight, 
And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks. 

At every dragon prow and helm. 
There stands some Viking as of yore ; 

Grim heroes from the boreal realm, 
Where Odin rules the spectral shore 



370 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



And oft beneath the sun or moon, 
Their swift and eager falchions glow ; 

While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune 
Comes chafing through some beard of snow. 

And when the far North flashes up 
With fires of mingled red and gold, 

They know that many a blazing cup 
Is brimming to the absent bold. 

Up signal then, and let us hail 

Yon looming phantom as we pass ! 

Note all her fashion, hull and sail, 
Within the compass of your glass. 

And speak her well ; for she might say. 
If from her heart the words could thaw, 

Great news from some far frozen bay, 
Or the remotest Esquimaux ; 

Might tell of channels yet untold, 
That sweep the pole from sea to sea ; 

Of lands which God designs to hold 
A mighty people yet to be; 

Of wonders which alone prevail 
Where day and darkness dimly meet. 

Of all which spreads the arctic sail ; 
Of Franklin and his venturous fleet ; 

How, haply, at some glorious goal, 
His anchor holds, his sails are furled ; 

That Fame has named him on her scroll, 
" Columbus of the Polar AVorld ;" 

Or how his plunging barques wedge on, 
Through splintering fields, with battered 
shares. 

Lit only by that spectral dawn. 
The mask that mocking darkness wears ; 

Or how, o'er embers black and few, 
The last of shivered masts and spars. 

He sits amid his frozen crew, 
In council with the norland stars. 

No answer but the sullen flow 
Of ocean heaving long and vast ; 

An argosy of ice and snow. 
The voiceless North swings proudly past. 
Thomas Buchanan Bead. 



The fairies have hidden their gold ; 
Forever eluding but tempting, 

The sunshine is bright on the rain, 
And over the hills and the valleys 

We follow the glory — in vain. 

Though we stand where we thought 
it had rested. 
Yet distant it ever appears ; 
For what seems the rainbow to others 

To those at its foot may be tears. 
The strongest of charms is upon it. 
This treasure, which never is gain- 
ed; 
And bright, with a glory celestial. 
Is the goal that is never attained. 

Miriam K. Davis. 



FAIRY GOLD. 

N the lore that is known to our 

childhood, 
The beautiful story is told 
That under the foot of the rainbow 



THE SEA. 

fHE sea! the sea! the open sea! 
The blue, the fresh, the ever free ; 
Without a mark, without a bound. 
It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 
Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 

I am where I w'ould ever be ; 

With blue above, and the blue below. 

And silence whereso'er I go ; 

If a storm should come and awake the deep. 

What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, oh how I love to ride 
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
When every mad wave drowns the moon, 
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune. 
And tells how goeth the world below, 
And why the sou' west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
But I loved the great sea more and more. 
And backward flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 
And a mother she was and is to me, 
For I was born on the open sea. 

The waves were white, and red the morn. 
In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled. 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean-child ! 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. m 

Pve lived since then, in calm and strife, And death, whenever he comes to me. 

Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! 
With wealth to spend, and power to range, Bryan W. Procter. 

But never have sought nor sighed for change ; (Barry Cornwall.) 



A /tl *^»^ /<ru^ U/Uh. J i>rt^ frrK -, 

%/^ft a/eUff' HrjjUuuC <f-^/<fl^i^ 4r7-*-tfA 
i^h4- f^t/it^ h»^ JmIL -h^AjJlei /4l C^A^ 



>^^;?., 



C/Ct^ 



FAIR WEATHER AJVD FOUL. 

^PEAK naught, move not, hut listen : the Look not, they will not heed thee ; speak not, 

)w sky is full of gold ; they will not hear ; 

No ripple on the river, no stir in field or Pray not, they have no bounty ; curse not, 
fold ; they may not fear ; 

All gleams, but naught doth glisten, save the Cower down, they will not heed thee ; long- 
far-off unseen sea. lived the world shall be. 

Forget days past, heart-broken, put all thy Hang down thine head and hearken, for the 
memory by I bright eve mocks thee still ; 

No grief on the green hill-side, no pity in the Night trippeth on the twilight, but the sum- 
sky ; mer hath no wiU 

Joy that may not be spoken fills mead and For woes of thine to darken, and the moon 
flower and tree ; hath left the sea. Anonymous. 




"Lo! Night's barbaric Khans, 
Lo ! the waste gulfs wild clans 
Gallop across the skies with fiery bridles l" 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



373 



:n'ortherm lights. 

K ELL'S gates swing open wide I 
Hell's furious chiefs forth ride I 
The deep doth redden 
With flags of armies marching through the 

Night, 
As kings shall lead their legions to the fight 
At Armageddon. 

Peers and princes mark I, 
Captains and Chilarchi ; 
Thee, burning Angel of the Pit, Abaddon ! 
Charioteers from Hades, land of Gloom, 
Gigantic thrones, and heathen troopers, 
whom 
The thunder of the far-off fight doth mad- 
den. 

Lo ! Night's barbaric Khans, 
Lo ! the waste gulfs wild clans 
Gallop across the skies with fiery bridles ! 
Lo ! flaming Sultans. Lo ! infernal Czars, 
In deep-ranked squadrons gird the glowing 
cars 
Of Lucifer and Ammon, towering Idols. 

See yonder red platoons ! 
See ! see the swift dragoons 
Whirling aloft their sabres to the zenith ! 
See the tall regiments whose spears incline 
Beyond the circle of that steadfast sign. 
Which to the streams of ocean never leaneth. 

Whose yonder dragon-crest ? 
Whose that red-shielded breast ? 
Chieftain Satanas! Emp'ror of the Furnace! 
His bright centurions, his blazing earls; 
In mail of lightning-dealing gems and 
pearls. 
Alarm the kingdoms with their gleaming har- 



All shades and spectral hosts. 
All forms and gloomy ghosts. 
All frowning phantoms from the Gulfs dim 
gorges 
Follow the Kings in wav'ring multitudes ; 
While savage giants of the Night's old 
brood. 
In pagan mirth, toss high their crackling 
torches. 

Monarchs, on guarded thrones. 
Ruling Earth's Southern zones, 
Mark ye the wrathful arches of Gehenna ; 



How gleam, affrighted Lords of Europe's 

crowns, 
Their blood-red arrows o'er your bastioned 
towns, 
Moscow, and purple Rome, and cannon-girt 
Vienna? 
Go bid your prophets watch the troubled 
skies ! 
" Why through the vault cleave those infernal 
glances. 
Why, ye pale Wizards, do those portents 
rise. 
Rockets and fiery shafts and lurid lances ?" 

Still o'er the silent Pole, 
Numberless armies roll. 
Columns all plumed and cohorts of artillery; 
Still girdled nobles cross the snowy fields 
In flashing chariots, and their crimsoned 
shields 
Kindle afar thy icy peaks, CordiUera ! 

On, Lords of dark Despair ! 
Prince of the Powers of Air, 
Bear your broad banners through the constel- 
lations. 

Wave, all ye Stygian hordes, 
Through the black sky your swords ; 
Startle with warlike signs the watching na- 
tions, 
March, ye mailed multitudes, across the 

deep ; 
Far shine the battlements on Heaven's 
steep. 
Dare ye again, fierce Thrones and scarlet 

Powers, 
Assail with Hell's wild host those crystal tow- 
ers? 
Tempt ye again the angels' shining blades, 
Ithuriel's spear and Michael's circling trun- 
cheon, 
The seraph-cavaliers, whose winged brigades 
Drove you in dreadful rout down to the 
Night's vast dungeon ? 

Guy H. McMaster. 



WITH HUSKY-HAUGHTY LIPS, O 

SEA! 

WITH husky-haughty lips, O Sea I 
Where day and night I wend thy surf- 
beat shore. 
Imaging to my sense thy varied strange sug- 
gestions, 



374 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Thy troops of white-maned racers racing to 

the goal, 
Thy ample, smiling face, dashed with the 

sparkling dimples of the sun, 
Thy broodings scowl and murk— thy unloos'd 

hurricanes, 
Thy unsubduedness, caprices, wilfulness ; 



Thy lonely state— something thou ever seek'st 
and seek'st, yet never gain'st. 

Surely some right withheld — some voice, in 
huge monotonous rage, of freedom- 
lover pent, 

Some vast heart, like a planet's chain'd and 
chafing in those breakers, 




Thy troops of white-maned racers racing to the goal, 

Thy broodings scowl and murk — thy unloos'd hurricanes.' 



Great as thou art above the rest, thy many By lengthen'd swell, and spasm, and panting 
tears — a lack from all eternity in thy breath, 

content And rythmic rasping of thy sands and waves, 

(Naught but the greatest struggles, wrongs, And serpent hiss, and savage peals of laugh- 
defeats, could make thee greatest — no ter, 

less could make thee), And undertones of distant lion roar 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



376 



(Sounding, appealing to the sky's deaf ear-- 

but now, rapport for once, 
A phantom in the night thy confidant for 

once), 
The first and last confession of the globe, 
Outsurging, muttering from thy soul's abysms, 
The tale of cosmic elemental passion. 
Thou tellest to a kindred soul. 

Walt Whitman. 



MOLIAjY HARP. 

WHAT saith the river to the rushes gray. 
Rushes sadly bending. 
River slowly wending ? 
Who can tell the w hispered things they say ? 

Youth, and prime, and life, and time, 
For ever, ever fled away ! 

Drop your wither'd garlands in the stream. 
Low autumnal branches, 
Round the skiff that launches. 

Wavering downward through the lands of 
dreams. 
Ever, ever fled away ! 

This is the burden, this the theme. 

What saith the river to the rushes gray, 

Rushes sadly bending. 

River slowly wending ? 
It is near the closing of the day, 

Near the night. Life and light 
For ever, ever fled away ! 

Draw him tideward down ; but not in haste. 

Mouldering daylight lingers ; 

Night with her cold fingers 
Sprinkles moonbeams on the dim sea-waste. 

Ever, ever fled away ! 
Vainly cherish'd ! vainly chased ! 

What saith the river to the rushes gray, 

Rushes sadly bending. 

River slowly wending? 
Where in darkest glooms his bed we lay. 

Up the cave moans the wave. 
For ever, ever, ever, fled away ? 

William Allingham. 



WIJfDLESS BAIjY. 

fHE rain, the desolate rain ! 
Ceaseless and solemn and chill! 
How it drips on the misty pane. 

How it drenches the darkened sill! 
O scene of sorrow and dearth! 



I would that the wind awaking 
To a fierce and gusty birth 

Might vary this dull refrain 

Of the rain, the desolate rain ; 
For the heart of the heavens seems 
breaking 

In tears o'er the fallen earth. 
And again, again, again. 
We list to the somber strain — 
The faint, cold monotone 
Whose soul is a mystic moan 

Of the rain, the mournful rain, 

The soft, despairing rain. 
The rain, the mournful rain ! 

Weary, passionless, slow ; 




Paul Hamilton Hayne. 

'Tis the rhythm of settled sorrow, 
The sobbing of cureless woe ! 

And all the tragic of life. 
The pathos of long ago. 

Comes back on the sad refrain 

Of the rain, the dreary rain ; 

Till the graves in my heart unclose. 
And the dead who are buried there, 

From a solemn and a weird repose 
Awake, and with eyes that glare 

And voices that melt in pain 

On the tide of the plaintive rain, 
The yearning, hopeless rain, 
The long, low, whispering rain ! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



are 



POEMS O^ BEAUTY. 



THJE CLOUD. 

1 BRIXG fresh showers for the thirsting 
I flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams ; 
From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
"When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun ; 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plain under ; 
And then again I dissolve in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white. 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea. 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue 
smile. 

While he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 

When the morning-star shines dead ; 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings ; 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit 
sea beneath. 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded, I rest on my airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the moon, 



Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of air are chained to my 
chair, 

Is the million-colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above the soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shores ; 
I change, but I cannot die ; 
For after the rain, when with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their con- 
vex gleams, 
Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost 
from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



THE EVIJJVIJVG CLOUD. 
CLOUD lay cradled near the setting 



A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; 
Long had I watched the glory moving on 



POEMS OF BEAUTY 



377 



O'er the still radiance ot the lake below ; 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated 
slow; 
Even in its very motion there was rest ; 
While every breath of eve that chanced to 
blow 
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous West. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ; 



To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is 
given, 
And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
Right onward to the golden gates of 
heaven ; 
Where to the eye of Faith it peaceful lies, 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 

John Wilson. 



DAWM. 

fHROW up the window ! 'Tis a morn for life I know it has been trifling with the rose. 

In its most subtle luxury. The air And stooping to the violet. There is joy 

Is like a breathing from a rarer world ; For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves 

And the south wind is like a gentle friend, Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing 




" Throw up the window ! 'Tis a morn for life 
In its most subtle luxury." 



Parting the hair so softly on my brow. 
It has come over gardens, and the flowers 
That kissed it are betrayed ; for as it parts, 
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair, 



As if to breathe were music, and the 

grass 
Sends up its modest odor with the dew, 
Like the small tribute of humility. 



378 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



I had awoke from an unpleasant dream, 
And light was welcome to me. I looked out 
To feel the common air, and when the breath 
Of the delicious morning met my brow, 
Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun 
Shone on familiar objects, it was like 
The feeling of the captive who comes forth 
From darkness to the cheerful light of day. 

Oh, could we wake from sorrow ! Were it all 
A troubled dream like this, to cast aside 
Like an untimely garment with the morn ! 
Could the long fever of the heart be cooled 
By a sweet breath from Nature, or the gloom 
Of a bereaved affection pass away 
With looking on the lively tint of flowers. 
How lightly were the spirit reconciled 
To make this beautiful, bright world its home ! 
Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



RALY ON THE ROOF. 

M«j^CHEN the humid shadows hover 
vHi/ Over all the starry spheres. 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in rainy tears, 
What a joy to press the pillow 

Of a cottage chamber bed. 
And to listen the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead! 

Every tinkle on the shingles 

Has an echo in the heart ; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy being start ; 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their bright hues into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 

Now in fancy comes my mother, 

As she used to, years agone. 
To survey her darling dreamers, 

Ere she left them till the dawn ; 
Oh! 1 see her bending o'er me. 

As I list to this refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister, 
With her wings and waving hair, 

And her bright-eyed cherub brother, 
A serene, angelic pair ! 

Glide around my wakeful pillow 
With their praise or mild reproof. 



As I listen to the murmur 
Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill me 

With her eyes' delicious blue, 
And forget I, gazing on her. 

That her heart was all untrue ; 
I remember but to love her 

With a rapture kin to pain ; 
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

There is naught in Art's bravuras 

That can work with such a spell 
In the spirit's pure deep fountains, 

Whence the holy passions well. 
As that melody of Nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain, 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Coaxes Kinney. 



MORJ^IJ^G PLEASURES. 

(From "Summer.") 

fALSELY luxurious, will not man awake. 
And, springing from the bed of sloth, en- 
joy 
The cool, the fragrant and the silent hour. 
To meditation due and sacred song ? 
For is there aught in sleep can charm the 

wise ? 
To lie in dead oblivion, losing half 
The fleeting moments of too short a life ; 
Total extinction of the enlightened soul ! 
Or else to feverish vanity alive, 
Wildered, and tossing through distempered 

dreams! 
Who would in such a gloomy state remain 
Longer than nature craves, when every muse 
And every blooming pleasure wait without. 
To bless the wildly devious morning walk? 
But yonder comes the powerful king of day. 
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, 
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow 
Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach 
Betoken glad. Lo ! now apparent all. 
Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air. 
He looks in boundless majesty abroad. 
And sheds the shining day, that burnished 

plays 
On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wander- 
ing streams. 
High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, 
light ! 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



379 



Of all material beings, first and best! 

Efflux divine ! Nature's resplendent robe ! 

Without whose vesting beauty all were wrap- 
ped 

In unessential gloom ; and thou, O Sun, 

Soul of surrounding worlds ! in whom best 
seen, 

Shines out thy Maker I may I sing of thee ? 



'Tis by thy secret, strong, attractive force, 
As with a chain indissoluble bound. 
Thy system rolls entire ; from the far bourn 
Of utmost Saturn, wheeling wide his round 
Of thirty years, to Mercury, whose disk 
Can scarce be caught by philosophic eye, 
Lost in the near effulgence of thy blaze. 

James Thomson. 



SUJYRISE IJf THE FOREST. 

(From '-Remarks on Forest Scenery.") 

'HE first dawn of day exhibits a beautiful obscurity, when the east begins just to 
brighten with the reflections only of effulgence ; a pleasing and progressive light, 
dubious and amusing, is thrown over the face of things. A single ray is able to assist 

*f the picturesque eye ; which by such slender aid creates a thousand imaginary forms, 
if the scene be unknown ; and as the light steals gradually on, is amused by correcting its 
vague ideas by the real objects. What in the confusion of twilight seemed a stretch of rising 
ground, broken into various parts, becomes now vast masses of wood, and an extent of forest. 

As the sun begins to appear above the horizon, another change takes place. What was be- 
fore only form, being enlightened, begins to receive effect. This effect depends upon two 
circumstances, the catching lights, which touch the summits of every object ; and the mis- 
tiness in which the rising orb is commonly enveloped. 

The effect is often pleasing, when the sun rises in unsullied brightness, diffusing its ruddy 
light over the upper parts of objects, which is contrasted by the deeper shadows below ; yet 
the effect is then only transcendent when he rises, accompanied by a train of vapors, in a misty 
atmosphere. Among lakes and mountains, this happy accompaniment often forms the most 
astonishing visions ; and yet it is in the forest nearly as great. With what admirable effect do 
we sometimes see the sun's disc just appear above a woody hill ; or, in Shakspere's language, 

" Stand tiptoe on the misty mountain top," 

and dart his diverging rays through the rising vapor! The radiance, catching the tops of 
the trees, as they hang midway upon the shaggy steep, and touching here and there a few 
other prominent objects, imperceptibly mixes its ruddy tint with the surrounding mists, set- 
ting on fire, as it were, their upper parts ; while their lower skirts are lost in a dark mass of 
varied confusion, in which trees, and ground, and radiance, and obscurity, are all blended to- 
gether. When the eye is fortunate enough to catch the glowing instant (for it is always a 
vanishing scene), it furnishes an idea worth treasuring among the choicest appearances of 
nature. Mistiness alone, we have observed, occasions a confusion in objects which is often 
picturesque ; but the glory of the vision depends upon the glowing lights which are mingled 
with it. 

Landscape painters in general pay too little attention to the discriminations of morning and 
evening. We are often at a loss to distinguish in pictures the rising from the setting sun ; 
though their characters are very different both in the lights and shadows. The ruddy lights, 
indeed, of the evening are more easily distinguished ; but it is not perhaps always sufficiently 
observed that the shadows of the evening are much less opaque than those of the morning. 
They may be brightened perhaps by the numberless rays floating in the atmosphere, which are 
incessantly reverberating in every direction ; and may continue in action after the sun is set. 
Whereas, in the morning, the rays of the preceding day having subsided, no object receives 
any light but from the immediate rays of the sun. Whatever becomes of the theory, the fact 
is, I believe, well ascertained. William Gilpin. 




I 



Romeo and Juuet, 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



381 



MOBJ^IJ^G. 

CFrom ''Romeo and Juliet," Act. III., Scene 5.) 

jTUL. It was the nightingale, and not the 
QJ lark, 

That plerc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; 
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 
Rom, It was the lark, the herald of the 
* morn, 
No nightingale : look, love, what envious 

streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east ; 
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops ; 
I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 

William Shakspere. 



HE A rUJV FBESEJ^T. 

(From "The Vision of Sir Launfal." ) 

MOT only around our infancy 
Doth heaven with all its splen- 
dors lie ; 
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot. 
We Sinai climb and know it not. 

Over our manhood bend the skies ; 

Against our fallen and traitor lives 
The great winds utter prophecies ; 

With our faint hearts the moun- 
tain strives ; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite ; 
And to our age's drowsy blood 

Still shouts the inspiring sea. 

James Russell Lowell. 



" TO ME THE WORLUS AJf 

OPEJf BOOK." 

\0 me the world's an open book 
Of sweet and pleasant poetry ; 
I read it in the running brook 

That sings its way towards the sea ; 
It whispers in the leaves of trees. 
The swelling grain, the waving 
grass. 
And in the cool, fresh evening breeze, 
That crisps the wavelets as they 
pass. 

The flowers below, the stars above, 
In all their bloom and brightness 
given, 



Are, like the attributes of love. 
The poetry of earth and heaven. 

Thus, Nature's volume, read aright. 
Attunes the soul to minstrelsy. 

Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, 
And all the world with poetry. 

George P. Morris. 



MOBJYIJVG. 

fHE busy larke, the messenger of 
day, 
Saluteth in her song, the morwe gray. 
And fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright, 
That all the Orient laugheth at the 

sight; 
And with his streams drieth in the 

greves 
The silver droppes hanging on the 
leves. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 



SOJ^'G OJT MAY MOBJYIJ^G. 

MOW the bright Morning-star, day's har- 
binger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with 

her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap 

throws 
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May ! thou dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song. 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

John Milton. 



SOJVJVET: A JEBSET SUMMEB 
DAY, 

t SUNNY land, soft air, and dreamful ease; 
I lie and watch a distant sail glide by. 
And wonder at the azure of the sky — 
Not here the thunder of the tumbling seas; 
Beneath the noon, untouched by any breeze, 
The long gray glimmering waters slumber- 
ing lie ; 
While sounds a faint and drowsy melody 
Along the shore, my wearied ears to please. 
For all the sunny pebbles on the beach 
Laugh, as the lazy waters round them creep ; 



9'32 



POEMS OF BEAUTY 

the storms and strife of 



The rocks forget 

Spring, 
And greet the sea with whispered welcoming; 



Which, sweeter than the sound of any speech, 
Brings to tired eyes a gentler balm than sleep. 

Anonymous. 






MOEJ^IKG. 

(I'rom "Summer.") 



fHE meek-eyed morn appears, mother of 
dews, 
At tirst, faint-gleaming in the dappled east, 
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow, 
And from before the luster of her face 



And from the bladed field the fearful haxe 
Limps, awkward; while along the forest 

glade 
The wild deer trip, and often turning, gaze 
At early passenger. Music awakes. 




" The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews, 
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east." 



White break the clouds away. With quick- 
ened step. 
Brown nightretires. Young day pours in apace, 
And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 
The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, 
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the 

dawn. 
Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents 
- shine. 



The native voice of undissembled joy; 

And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 

Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd 

leaves 
His mossy cottage, where with peace he 

dwells. 
And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. 
James Thomson. 



MORJ^IJfG, 

(From ''The Minstrel.") 

UT who the melodies of morn can tell ! The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell} 
* The wild brook babbling down themoun- The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
tain side ; In the lone vaUey ; echoing far and wide 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



383 



The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 

The hollow murmur of the ocean tide; 
The hum of bees ; the linnet's lay of love, 
And the full choir that wakes the universal 
grove. 

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark , 
Crowned with her pail the tripping milk- 
maid sings ; 

The whistling plowman stalks afield ; and 
hark ! 



Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon 

rings ; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonished 
springs ; 
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring 
wings ; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial 
tower. 

James Beattie, 








"But who the melodies of morn can tell ! 
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell.' 



MORJVIJVG. 

(From " Fharonnida.") 



fHE morning hath not lost her virgin 
blush, 
Nor step, but mine, soiled the earth's tin- 
selled robe. 
24 



How full of heaven this solitude appears, 
This healthful comfort of the happy swain ; 
Who from his hard but peaceful bed 
roused up, 



384 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



In's morning exercise saluted is 

By a full choir of feathered choristers, 

Wedding their notes to the enamoured 



air! 



Here nature in her unaffected dress, 



Plaited with valleys, and embossed with hills 
Enchased with silver streams, and fringed 

with woods. 
Sits lovely in her native russet. 

William Chamberlayne. 




The morning hath not lost her virgin blush, 

Nor step, but mine, soiled the earth's tinselled robe." 



-0/ — 



elder- 



XIGBT. 

(From ''The Night Thoughts.") 

§ MAJESTIC Mght ! 
ISTature's great ancestor! Day's 
born! 
And fated to survive the transient sun ! 
By mortals and immortals seen with awe! 
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns. 
An azure zone, thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's 

loom 
Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, 
In ample folds of drapery divine. 
Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven 

throughout. 
Voluminously pour thy pompous train. 
Thy gloomy grandeurs nature's most august, 
Inspiring aspect! claim a graceful verse. 
And like a sable curtain starred with gold, 
Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the 
scene. 

Edwakd Young. 



THE GRAY:N'UJf. 

fHERE comes, each dying day to bless, 
A little while before the night, 



A gentle nun in convent dress 
Of clinging robes all gray and white. 

She lays her cool hand on my face, 
And smooths the lines of care away, 

Her tender touch with magic grace 
Dispels the worry of the day. 

She folds the mystic curtain by 

That hides from view the shadowy throng. 
And gives me those for whom I sigh. 

The vanished friends for whom I long. 



Sometimes she brings a perfumed spray 
Of flowers that bloomed long years ago. 

The breath of summer Jaid away 
'Neath many a winter's drifted snow. 



No other guest gives such delight, 
Nor can of peace bestow the same. 

As she who comes twixtday and night. 
And Twilight is the gray nun's name. 

ViKGDOA B. Harrison. 



I 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 
BUGLE SOJVG, 



385 



fMHE splendor falls on castle walls, 
"F And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 



(From ''The Princess.") 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing I 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
Blow, bugle; answer echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 




"The splendor falls on castle walls, 
And snowy summits old in story." 



Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O hark, O hear I how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar, 



O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or fleld or river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. Alfred Texnysox, 




1 
i 



"A woman's wistful eyes look out across the hills,'* 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



387 



WEEJ^ DAT MEETS JflGHT. 

§UT to the west the spent day kisses night, 
And with one parting glow of passion 
dies 
In gold and red ; a woman's wistful eyes 
Look out across the hills, a band of light 
Plays on her parted hair, there softly dwells, 
And throws a glory o'er her girlish dream ; 
The sheep slow nestle down beside the 
stream. 
And cattle wander with their tinkling bells. 

The clouds, sun-flushed, cling 'round the day's 
decline ; 
The woman's eyes grow tender; shadows 
creep ; 
Gold turns to gray ; a sharp dividing line 
Parts earth and heaven. Adown the western 
height 
The calm cold dark has kissed the day to 
sleep ; 
The wistful eyes look out across the night. 
Chakles W. Coleman, Jr. 



TWILIGHT. 

fHE Sunrise waits behind Heaven's 
gates. 
Unclosed of lagging Morning ; 
In shadows slow the world below 
Fore-greets it, self-adorning. 

The sweet song-bird is rising heard, 
The cold, gray light is growing. 

To herald still on every hill 
The red Sun's royal flowing. 

The still dark night foresees the light 

Before her head she lends us ; 
And waning far, the dwindling star 

Its mystic message sends us. 

In glowing pride of prospect wide 

The firmament uncloses ; 
And wakes to bliss with stooping kiss 
The petals of the roses. 

The watch-dog's sleep, serene and deep. 
Breaks on the morning's breaking. 

And pillowed head that mocked the 
dead 
From dream to work is waking. 

The sons of toil in earth's turmoil 
Come forth ere day to labor ; 



And lazy wealth outsleeps his health. 
To compensate his neighbor. 

The world of sound springs up around. 

In murmurs waxing ever ; 
And wearied men are armed again. 

To face the long endeavor. 

We know not, we, what this may be. 

The mystery of ages. 
Which day by day writes lives away 

On unremembered pages. 

But calm at least, they watch the East, 

For victory or disaster, 
Who firmly hold the best the old. 

And Faith alone the Master. 

Herma^'^ Merivale. 



evej^IjYG calm. 

(From "Lalla Rookli.") 

MOW calm, how beautiful comes on 
The stilly hour, when storms are gone ; 
When warring winds have died away. 
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, 
Melt off", and leave the land and sea 
Sleeping in bright tranquility ; 
Fresh as if day again were born. 
Again upon the lap of Morn ! 
When the light blossoms, rudely torn 
And scattered at the whirlwind's will. 
Hang floating in the pure air still, 
Filling it all with precious balm. 
In gratitude for this sweet calm ; 
And every drop the thunder-showers 
Have left upon the grass and flowers 
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem 
Whose liquid flame is born of them ; 
When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, 
There blow a thousand gentle airs. 
And each a different perfume bears. 
As if the loveliest plants and trees 
Had vassal breezes of their own 
To watch and wait on them alone. 

And waft no other breath than theirs ; 
When the blue waters rise and fall. 
In sleepy sunshine mantling all ; 
And even that swell the tempest leaves 
Is like the full and silent heaves 
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest. 
Too newly to be quite at rest. 

Thomas Moore. 



388 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



TWILIGHT. 

(From ' ' Essays on the Picturesque. ") 

'HERE are some days when the whole sky is so full of jarring lights, that the shadiest 
groves and avenues hardly preserve their solemnity; and there are others, when the 
atmosphere, like the last glazing of a picture, softens into mellowness whatever is 
*f crude throughout the landscape. 

Milton, whose eyes seem to have been most sensibly affected by every accident and grada- 
tion of light (and that possibly in a great degree from the weakness and consequently the 
irritability of these organs), speaks always of twilight with peculiar pleasure. He has even 
reversed what Socrates did by philosophy ; he has called up twilight from earth and placed it 
in heaven. 

From that high mount of God whence light and shade 
Spring forth, the face of brightest heaven had changed 
To grateful twilight. — Paradise Lost, v. 643. 

What is also singular, he has in this passage made shade an essence equally wath light, not 
merely a privation of it ; a compliment never, I believe, paid to shadow before, but which 
might be expected from his aversion to glare, so frequently and so strongly expressed : 

Hide me from day's garish eye. — 
When the sun begins to fling 
'H.isjlaring beams. 

The peculiarity of the effect of twilight is to soften and mellow. At that delightful time, 
even artificial water, however naked, edgy and tame its banks, will often receive a momen- 
tary charm ; for then all that is scattered and cutting, all that disgusts a painter's eye, is 
blended together in one broad and soothing harmony of light and shadow. I have more than 
once, at such a moment, happened to arrive at a place entirely new to me, and have been 
struck in the highest degree with the appearance of wood, water and buildings, that seemed 
to accompany and set off each other in the happiest manner; and I felt quite impatient to ex- 
amine all these beauties by daylight. 

At length the morn, and cold indifference came. 

The charm which held them together, and made them act so powerfully as a whole, had van- 
ished. 

It may, perhaps, be said that the imagination, from a few imperfect hints, often forms 
beauties which have no existence, and that indifference may naturally arise from those phan- 
toms not being realized. I am far from denying the power of partial concealment and ob- 
scurity on the imagination ; but in these cases, the set of objects when seen by twilight is beau- 
tiful as a picture, and would appear highly so if exactly represented on the canvas ; but in 
full daylight, the sun, as it were, decompounds what had been so happily mixed together, and 
separates a striking whole into detached unimpressive parts. 

Sir Uvedale Price. 



MOW beautiful this night! 
sigh 
Which vernal zephyrs breath in evening's 

ear. 
Were discord to the speaking quietude 



JVIGET. 

(From "Queen Mab.") 

the palmiest That wraps this moveless scene 



Heaven's 
ebon vault. 
Studded with stars unutterably bright. 
Through which the moon's unclouded gran- 
deur rolls, 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



Seems like a canopy which love has spread 
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle 

hills, 
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, 
So stainless, that their white and glittering 

spires 
Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castle 

steep. 



Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn 

tower 
So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it 
A metaphor of peace ; all form a scene 
Where musing Solitude might love to lift 
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; 
Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, 
So cold, so bright, so still. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 




A STORMY SUJsrSET BY THE SEASIDE. 

(From "The Antiquary.") 

'HE sun was now resting his huge disk upon the edge of the level ocean, and gilded the 
accumulation of towering clouds through which he had traveled the live-long day, 
and, which now assembled on all sides, like misfortunes and disasters around a sinking 
*f empire and falling monarch. Still, however, his dying splendour gave a sombre mag- 
nificence to the massive congregation of vapours, forming out of the unsubstantial gloom the 
show of pyramids and towers, some touched with gold, some with purple, some with a hue 
of deep and dark red. The distant sea, stretched beneath this varied and gorgeous canopy, 
lay almost portentously still, reflecting back the dazzling and level beams of the descending 
luminary, and the splendid colouring of the clouds amidst which he was setting. Nearer to 
the beach, the tide rippled onward in waves of sparkling silver, that inperceptibly, yet rap- 
idly, gained upon the sand. 



Following the windings of the beach, they passed one projecting point of headland or rock 
after another, and now found themselves under a hage and continued extent of the precipices 
by which that iron-bound coast is in most places defended. Long projecting reefs of rock, 
extending under water, and only evincing their existence by here and there a peak entirely 
bare, or by the breakers which foamed over those that were partially covered, rendered 
Knockwinnock bay dreaded by pilots and ship-masters. The crags which rose between the 



390 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



beach and the mainland, to the height of two or three hundred feet, afforded in their crevices 
shelter to unnumbered seafowl, in situations seemingly secured by their dizzy height from the 
rapacity of man. Many of these wild tribes, with the instinct which sends them to seek the 
land before a storm arises, were now winging towards their nests with the shrill and disso- 
nant clang which announces disquietude and fear. The disk of the sun became almost totally 
obscured ere he had altogether sunk below the horizon, and an early and lurid shade of dark- 
ness blotted the serene twilight of a summer evening. The wind began next to arise ; but its 
wild and moaning sound was heard some time, and its effect became visible on the bosom of 
the sea, before the gale was felt on shore. The mass of waters, now dark and threatening, 
began to lift itself in larger ridges and sink in deeper furrows, forming waves that rose high 
in foam upon the breakers, or burst upon the beach with a sound resembling distant thunder. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



OUR IKLAJ^B SUMMER J^IGETFALL. 

(Extract.) 

WITHIN" the twilight came forth tender From out some lower dark 
snatches Comes up a dog's short bark ; 
Of birds' songs, from beneath their dark- There food and welcome rest, there cool 
ened eaves ; soft meadows lie. 
But now a noise of poor ground-dwellers 
matches 
This dimness ; neither loves, nor joys, nor The children, watching by the roadside wick- 
grieves, et, 
A piping, slight and shrill, Now houseward troop, for blind-man's- 
And coarse, dull chirpings, fill buff, or tag ; 
The ear, that all day's stronger, finer music Here chasing, sidelong, fireflies to the thicket. 



leaves. 

From this smooth hill we see the vale below, 
there. 
And how the mists along the stream-course 
draw ; 
By day, great trees from other ages grow there, 
A white lake now, that daylight never saw. 
It hugs in ghostly shape 
The Old Deep's shore and cape. 
As when, where night-hawks skim, swam fish 
with yawning maw. 

All grows more cool, though night comes 
slowly over. 
And slowly stars stand out within the sky ; 
The trampling market-herd and way-sore 
drover 
Crowd past with seldom cries, their halt 
now nigh. 



There shouting, with a grass-tuft reared for 
flag. 
They claim this hour from night. 
But with a sure, still sleight. 
The sleep-time clogs their feet, and one by 
one they lag. 



And now the still stars make all heaven sight- 
ly, 
One, in the low west, like the sky ablaze ; 
The Swan that with her shining Cross floats 
nightly, 
And Bears that slowly walk along their 
ways; 
There is the golden Lyre, 
And there the Crown of fire. 
Thank God for nights so fair to these bright 
days. 

Robert Lowell. 



SUJfSET. 
^ UNSET Is burning like the seal of Goa To chase the flying sun, whose flight has left 
}3) Upon the close of day. This very hour Foot-prints of glory in the clouded west : 
Night mounts her chariot in the eastern Swift is she hailed by winged swimming 
glooms, steeds, 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



391 



Whose cloudy manes are wet with heavy 
dews, 

And dews are drizzling from her chariot- 
wheels 

Brainful of dreams, as summer hives with 
bees. 

And round her, in the pale and spectral light. 

Flock bats and grizzly owls on noiseless wings. 

The flying Sun goes down the burning west, 

Vast Night comes noiseless up the eastern 
slope, 

And so the eternal chase goes round the 
world. 

Alexander Sivhth. 



SOJ^JVIJT OK JflGHT. 

("It is a singular circumstance in literary history, that 
what many consider the finest sonnet in the English lan- 
guage should be one written by a Spaniard."— Robert 
Chambers.) 

pJYSTERIOUS Night! when our first par- 
J8l ent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy 

name. 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew. 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting 

flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came ; 
And lo! Creation widened in man's view! 
Who could have thought such darkness lay 
concealed 
Within thy beams, O sun? or who could 
find, 
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed. 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us 
blind ? 
Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious 
strife ? 
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not 
Life? 

Joseph Blanco White. 



XIGHT. 

m?/*IIEN T survey the bright 
W Celestial sphere, 
So rich with jewels hung, that night 
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear, 

My soul her wings doth spread, 

And heavenward flies, 
The Almighty's mysteries to read 

In the large volume of the skies. 



For the bright firmament 

Shoots forth no flame 
So silent, but is eloquent 

In speaking the Creator's name ; 

No unregarded star 

Contracts its light 
Into so small a character, 

Removed far from our human sight. 

But if we steadfast look. 

We shall discern 
In it, as in some holy book. 

How man may heavenly knowledge 
learn. 

It tells the conqueror 

That far-stretched power 
Which his proud dangers traffic for, 

Is but the triumph of an hour ; 

That from the farthest north. 

Some nation may. 
Yet undiscovered, issue forth. 

And o'er his new-got conquest 
sway. 

Some nation, yet shut in 

With hills of ice. 
May be let out to scourge his sin, 

TiH they shall equal him in vice. 

And they likewise shall 

Their ruin have ; 
For as yourselves your empires fall. 

And every kingdom hath a grave. 

There those celestial fires, 

Though seeming mute, 
The fallacy of our desires 

And all the pride of life confute. 

For they have watched since first 

The world had birth. 
And found sin in itself a curse, 

And nothing permanent on earth. 

William Habington. 



MOOJ^RISE. 

WHAT stands upon the high- 
land, 
What walks across the rise, 
As though a starry island 
Were sinking down the skies ? 



392 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



What makes the trees so golden ? 

What decks the mountain-side ? 
Like a veil of silver folden 

Round the white brow of a bride ? 



She works, with touch ethereal, 
By changes strange to see, 

The cypress, so funereal, 
To a lightsome fairy tree ; 




"The magic moon is breaking, 
The waiting world awaking to a golden fairy feast." 



The magic moon is breaking, 
Like a conquerer, from the east, 

The waiting world awaking 
To a golden fairy feast. 



Black rocks to marble turning 
Like palaces of kings ; 

On ruin windows burning, 
A festal glory flings ; 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



393 



The desert halls uplighting ; 

While falling shadows glance, 
Like courtly crowds uniting 

For the banquet or the dance ; 

With ivory wand she numbers 

The stars along the sky ; 
And breaks the billow's slumbers 

With the love-glance of her eye ; 

Along the corn-fields dances, 
Brings bloom upon the sheaf; 

From tree to tree she glances, 
And touches leaf by leaf; 

Wakes birds that sleep in shadows ; 
Through their half-closed eyelids 
gleams ; 
With her white torch through the 
meadows 
Lights the shy deer to the streams. 

The magic moon is breaking, 
Like a conqueror from the east, 

And the joyous world partaking 
Of her golden fairy feast. 

Ernest Joxes. 

JYIGHT AT SEA. 

(Extract.) 

fHE lovely purple of the noon's bestowing 
Has vanished from the waters, where it 
flung 
A royal color^ such as gems are throwing 

Tyrian or regal garniture among. 
Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming ; 
Through the slight vapor trembles each dim 
star; 
I turn away — my heart is sadly dreaming 

Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar. 
My friends, my absent friends ! do you think 
of me as T think of you ? 
■X- * * * * 

The world with one vast element omitted — 

Man's own especial element, the earth ; 
Yet o'er the waters is his rule transmitted 
By that great knowledge wherein power 
has birth. 
How oft, on some strange loveliness while 
gazing. 
Have I wished for you— beautiful as new, 
The purpie waves, like some wild army, rais- 
ing 
Their snowy banners as the ship cuts 
through. 



My friends, my absent friends, do you think 
of me as I think of you ? 

Letitia Landon. 

(Mrs. L. E. L. Maclean.) 

SUMMER EYEKIKG. 

(From a Lyric entitled "Musings.") 

[HE moonbeams lay upon the hill. 
The shadows in the vale. 
And here and there a leaping rill 
Was laughing on the gale. 

One fleecy cloud upon the air 

Was all that met my eyes ; 
It floated like an angel there. 

Between me and the skies. 



The twilight hours like birds flew by, 

As lightly and as free ; 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky. 

Ten thousand in the sea ; 
For every wave with dimpled face 

That leaped into the air. 
Had caught a star in its embrace. 

And held it trembling there. 




Amelia B. Welby. 

The young moon, too, with upturned sides, 

Her mirrored beauty gave. 
And as a bark at anchor rides, 

She rode upon the wave. 
The sea was like the heaven above, 

As perfect and as whole. 
Save that it seemed to thrill with love. 

As thrills the immortal soul. 

Amell\. B. Welby. 



394 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



SOJ^G OF J^OURMAHAL. 

(From "Lalla Rookh.") 



fOR mine is the lay that lightly floats, 
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, 
That fall as soft as snow on the sea, 
And melt in the heart as instantly ; 
And the passionate strain, that, deeply going. 

Refines the bosom it trembles through. 
As the musk wind, over the waters blowing. 
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too. 

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway 
The spirits of past delight obey ; 
Let but the tuneful talisman sound, 
And they come, like genii, hovering round. 



And mine is the gentle song that bears 
From soul to soul the wishes of love. 

As a bird that wafts through genial airs 
The cinnamon seed from grove to grove. 

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure 
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ; 
When Memory links the tone that is gone 

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear, 
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on 

To a note more heavenly still that is near. 
Thomas Moore. 



-o, — 



FROM "THE SELF-FKCBAKTEI): 



Jr AtiJ/ 



4l4^U^^ o/yvc^^^*^*^ ^ ^^ 




A/CAJU 



^^u-^^Ml^ ''^^^^oAyQ^ (^/-'/^^iy/^ eAr^ 




MUSIC. 

(From " Merchant of Venice," Act V., Scene 1.) 

MOW sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this 
bank! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica: Look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 
There's not the smallest orb, which thou be- 

hold'st. 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubim. 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 

William Shakspere. 



MARE RUBRUM. 

fLASH out a stream of blood-red wine, 
For I would drink to other days. 
And brighter shall their memory shine. 

Seen flaming through its crimson blaze! 
The roses die, the summers fade. 

But every ghost of boyhood's dream 
By nature's magic power is laid 
To sleep beneath this blood-red stream. 

It fllled the purple grapes that lay 

And drank the splendors of the sun. 
Where the long summer's cloudless day 

Is mirrored in the broad Garonne ; 
It pictures still the bacchant shapes 

That saw their hoarded sunlight shed ; 
The maidens dancing on the grapes, 

Their milkwhite ankles splashed with red. 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



395 



Beneath these waves of crimson lie, 

In rosy fetters prisoned fast, 
Those flitting shapes that never die — 

The swift-winged visions of the past. 
Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim, 

Each shadow rends its flowery chain, 
Springs in a bubble from its brim 

And walks the chamber of the brain. 

Poor beauty! Time and fortune's wrong 
No shape nor feature may withstand ; 

Thy wrecks are scattered all along. 
Like emptied sea-shells on the sand ; 



The shout of voices known so well, 
The ringing laugh, the wailing flute, 
The chiding of the sharp-tongued bell. 

Here, clad in burning robes, are laid 

Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed. 
And here those cherished forms have stray- 
ed 

We miss awhile, and call them dead. 
What wizard fills the wondrous glass ? 

What soil the enchanted clusters grew ? 
That buried passions wake and pass 

In beaded drops of fiery dew? 




^^^^/i^^ 



^y^^^^f^.^^^^ 



Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, 
The dust restores each blooming girl, 

As if the sea-shells moved again 
Their glistening lips of pink and pearl. 

Here lies the home of school-boy life. 
With creaking stair and wind-swept hall, 

And, scarred by many a truant knife, 
Our old initials on the wall ; 

Here rest, their keen vibrations mute, 



Nay ! take the cup of blood-red wine ; 

Our hearts can boast a warmer glow. 
Filled with a vintage more divine. 

Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's snow I 
To-night, the palest wave we sip 

Rich as the priceless draught shall be 
That wet the bride of Cana's lip — 

The wedding wine of Galilee ! 

OnvEii Wendell Holmes, 



396 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



THE HARP THE MOJ^AUCH MlJf- 
STEEL SWEPT, 
I. 
|HE harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
Which Music hallovv'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! 
It soften'd men of iron mould. 

It gave them virtues not their own ; 
No ear so dull, no soul so cold. 
That felt not, fired not to the tone. 
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his 
throne ! 

n. 
It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring. 
The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 
Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more. 

Devotion and her daughter Love 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 
To sounds that seem as from above, 
In dreams that day's broad light can not re- 
move. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 



DBIJVKIJ^G. 

(Paraphrased from "Anacreon.") 

f^HE thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 

IF And drinks, and gapes for drink again. 
The plants suck in the earth, and are. 
With constant drinking, fresh and fair. 
The sea itself, which one would think 
Should have but little need of drink. 
Drinks ten thousand rivers up, 
So filled that they o'erflow the cup. 
The busy sun — and one w'ould guess 
By'a drunken, fiery face no less — 
Drinks up the sea, and when he has done. 
The moon and stars drink up the sun. 
They drink and dance by their own light, 
They drink and revel all the night. 
Nothing in Nature's sober found, 
But an eternal health goes round. 
Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high. 
Fill all the glasses there, so why 
Should every creature drink but I ? 
Why, men of morals, tell me why ? 

Abraham Cowley, 



LOWLY PLEASURES. 

/1||\ETHINKS I love all common things, 
VW The common air, the common flower. 
The dear, kind, common thought that springs 
From hearts that have no other dower. 
No other wealth, no other power. 
Save love ; and will not that repay 
For all else fortune tears away ? 



What good are fancies rare, that rack 
With painful thought the poet's brain ? 

Alas ! they cannot bear us back 
Unto happy years again ! 
But the white rose without stain 

Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers. 

When youth was bounteous as the hours. 

Bryan W. Procter. 

(Barry CornwaU.) 



MUSIC. 

Mn^HEN whispering strains with creeping 
^^^ wind 

Distil soft passions through the heart ; 
And when at every touch we find 
Our pulses beat and bear a part ; 

When threads can make 

A heartstring ache, 

Philosophy 

Can scarce deny 

Our souls are made of harmony. 

When unto heavenly joys we fain 

Whate'er the soul affecteth most, 
Which only thus we can explain 
By music of the heavenly host. 
Whose lays, we think, 
Make stars to wink, 
Philosophy 
Can scarce deny 
Our souls consist of harmony. 

Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air ! 

My senses rock with wonder sweet ; 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are. 
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet ; 
Grief who need fear 
That hath an ear? 
Down let him lie. 
And slumbering die. 
And change his soul for harmony. 

William Strode. 




POEMS OF BEAUTY. 397 

OBSER VATIOM. 

(From "Lacon.") 

y"^^ DERVISH was journeying alone in the desert, when two merchants suddenly met him. 
f *^zA u You have lost a camel," said he to the merchants. 
^^ " Indeed, we have," they replied. 

" Was he not blind in his right eye, and lame in his left leg ?" said the dervish. 

"He was," replied the merchants. 

" Had he not lost a front tooth ?" said the dervish. 

" He had," rejoined the merchants. 

" And was he not laden with honey on one side, and wheat on the other ?" 

" Most certainly he was," they replied, " and as you have seen him so lately, and marked 
him so particularly, you can, in all probability, conduct us to him." 

" My friends, " said the dervish," I have never seen your camel, nor ever heard of him but 
from you." 

" A pretty story, truly," said the merchants; " but where are the jewels which formed part 
of his cargo ?" 

"I have neither seen your camel, nor your jewels," repeated the dervish. 

On this they seized his person, and forthwith hurried him before the cadi, where, on the 
strictest search, nothing could be found upon him, nor could any evidence be adduced to 
convict him, either of falsehood or theft. They were then about to proceed against him as a 
sorcerer, when the dervish, with great calmness, thus addressed the court : 

" I have been much amused with your surprise, and own that there was some ground for 
your suspicions ; but I have lived long, and alone ; and I can find ample scope for observa- 
tion, even in a desert. I knew that I had crossed the track of a camel that had strayed from 
its owner, because I saw no mark of any human footstep on the same route. I knew that the 
animal was blind in one eye, because it had cropped the herbage only on one side of its path. 
And I perceived that it was lame in one leg, from the faint impression which that particular 
foot had produced upon the sand. I concluded that the animal had lost one tooth, because, 
wherever it had grazed, a small tuft of herbage had been left uninjured in the midst of its bite. 
As to that which formed the burthen of the beast, the busy ants informed me that it was 
corn on one side, and the clustering flies that it was honey on the other." 

Caleb Charles Colton. 
o 

DISTAJVCE. 

§N softening days, when a storm was near. And so sometimes on a moonless night. 

At the farmhouse door I have stood in When the stars shine soft and the wind is low, 

the gray. To my listening soul, in the pallid light. 

And caught in the distance, faint but clear, Come the trembling voices of long ago. 

The sound of a train, passing, far away. The tuneful echoes when hope was young, 

The warning bell when the start was made. The tender song of love serene. 

The engine's puffing of smoke unseen. And the throbbing rhythm of passion's tongue. 

With the heavy rumble as wheels obeyed — Across the years between. 

Across the miles between. Maegaret W. Hamilton. 



MUSIC. 
USIC and rhyme are among the earliest pleasures of the child, and in the history of 
literature poetry precedes prose. Every one may see, as he rides on the highway 
through an uninteresting landscape, how a little water instantly relieves the monot- 
ony ; no matter what objects are near it, a gray rock, a grass-patch, an elder bush, or a 
stake, they become beautiful by being reflected. It is rhyme on the eye, and explains the 
charm of rhyme on the ear. Ralph Waldo Emerson, 



m 



398 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 
THE OLD OAKEJ^ BUCKET, 



MOW dear to this heart are the scenes of I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

my childhood, The purest and sweetest that nature can 

When fond recollection presents them to yield. 

view ! How ardent I seized it with hands that were 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled glowing, 

•wild wood, How quick to the white pebbled bottom it felL' 
And every loved spot which my infancy Then soon with the emblem of truth overflow- 
knew ; ing, 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
stood by it, the well. 




How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them to view." 



The bridge and the rock where the cataract 
fell; 
The cot of ray father, the dairy house nigh it, 
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the 
well, 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 
well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure. 
For often at noon, when returned from the 
lield, 



The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 



How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- 
ceive it, 
As poised on the curb, it inclined to my 
lips! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupitey 
sips; 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



399 



And now, far removed from the loved situa- 
tion, 
The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the 
well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the 
well. 

Samuel Wood worth. 



THE BELLS OF SSAJVDOjY. 

W'lTH deep affection 
And recollection, 
I often think of 

The Shandon bells, 
Whose sound so wild would 
In days of childhood 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder, 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder. 

Sweet Cork, of thee, 
With thy bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in. 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine. 
While at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine ; 
For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free. 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in. 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican ; 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 

From the gorgeous turrets 
Of Notre Dame 5 
25 



But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
Oh, the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee ! 

There's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk O 
In St. Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summits 

Of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me : 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony. 

(" Father Prout.") 



woodmajY, spare that tree. 

¥OODMAX, spare that tree ! 
Touch not a single bough! 
In youth it sheltered me, 
And I'll protect it now. 
'Tvvas my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot ; 
There, Avoodman, let it stand, 
Thy axe shall harm it not. 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea ; 

And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies ! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy. 

Here, too, my sisters played ; 
My mother kissed me here. 

My father pressed ray hand ; 
Forgive this foolish tear. 

But let that old oak stand { 



400 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



My heart-strings round thee cling 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
Here shall the wild bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree I the storm still brave ! 

And woodman, leave the spot I 
While I've a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall hurt it not. 

George P. Morris. 




George P. Morris. 



COMMON THIjYGS. 

[HE bee from the clover blooms 
Is ready to lift his Avings ; 
I found him gathering honey 
Out of the common things. 

The bird to the maple bough 
The twigs and the stubble brings; 

He is building his love a cottage 
Out of the common things. 

The poet sits by himself; 

What do you think he sings? 
Nothing! he gets no music 

Out of the common things. 

Samuel W. Duffieu). 



AJ^ ORDER FOR A PICTURE, 

§H, good painter, tell me, true. 
Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things you never saw ? 
Aye ? Well, here is an order for you : 



Woods and cornfields a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over-bright, — 
Yet all in the golden and gracious light 

Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. 
Alway and alway, night and morn, 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
Lying between them, not quite sere, 

And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, 

When the wind can hardly find breathing 
room 
Under their tassels ; cattle near. 

Biting shorter the short green grass ; 

And a hedge of sumach and sassafras. 

With bluebirds twittering all around, 

(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound I) 
These, and the house where I was born. 

Low and little and black and old. 

With children, many as it can hold. 

All at the windows, open wide ; 

Heads and shoulders clear outside. 

And fair young faces all ablush ; 
Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
Roses crowding the selfsame way, 

Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing 
herds, 
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
Looked down upon you must paint for me : 
Oh, if I only could make you see 
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle 

grace, 
The woman's soul, and the angel's face 
That are beaming on me all the while! 
I need not speak these foolish words ; 
Yet one word tells you all I would say : 
She is my mother ; you will agree 
That all the rest would be thrown away, 

Two little urchins at her knee. 

You must paint, sir ; one like me. 
The other with a clearer brow, 
And the light of his adventurous eyes 
Flashing with noblest enterprise : 

At ten years old he went to sea— 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



401 



God knoweth if he be living now — 

He sailed in the good ship Commodore ; 
Nobody ever crossed her track 
To bring us news, and she never came back. 

Ah ! it is twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 

With my great-hearted brother on her deck; 

I watched him till he shrank to a speck, 
And his face was toward me all the way. 
Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 

The time we stood at oar mother's knee ; 
That beauteous head, if it did go down. 

Carried sunshine into the sea. 

Out in the fields, one summer night, 

We were together, half afraid 

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the 
shade 
Of the high hills stretching so still and 
far; 
Loitering till after the low little light 

Of the candle shone through the open door. 
And over the haystack's pointed top, 
All of a tremble and ready to drop. 

The first half-hour, the great yellow star. 

That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
Had often and often watched to see 

Propped and held in its place in the skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree. 

Which close in the edge of our flax-field 
grew,— 
Dead at the top ; just one branch full 
Of leaves, notched round and lined with wool, 

From which it tenderly shook the dew 
Over our heads, when we came to play 
In its handbreath of shadow, day after day. 

Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs. 
The other, a bird held fast by the legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat ; 
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat. 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill. 
So smooth and shining, to keep her still. 

At last we stood by our mother's knee. 

Do you think, sir, if you try, 

You can paint the look of a lie ? 

If you can, pray have the grace 

To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me ; 

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed, 

But that's no matter — paint it so ; 
The eyes of our mother — take good heed — 
Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 



Nor the fluttering bird, held fast by the legs, 
But straight through our faces, down to our 

lies, 
And oh, with such injured, reproachful sur- 
prise ! 
I felt my heart bleed where that glance 

went, as though 
A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most sweet ! 
Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree, 
The mother, the lads with the bird, at her 

knee; 
But oh, that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and leave that 

out. Alice Caky. 




Alice Cary. 



YOUTH AJ^D AGE. 

fERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee. 
Both were mine! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young! 
When I was young ? Ah, woeful when 1 
Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands, 

This body does me grievous wrong ; 
O'er airy cliflfs and glittering sands, 



402 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



How lightly then it flashed along ! 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 

On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 

That fear no spite of wind or tide : 
Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
When Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 

Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
O, the joys, that came down shower-like. 

Of Friendship, Love and Liberty, 
Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? Ah, woeful ere, 
Which tells me Youth's no longer here! 

Youth! for years so many and sweet, 
'Tis known that thou and I were one ; 

I'll think it but a fond conceit ; 

It cannot be that thou art gone : 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled ; 
And thou wert aye a masker bold; 
What strange disguise hast now put on 
To make believe that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips, 
This drooping gate, this altered size. 

But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes : 
Life is but thought ; so think 1 will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Samuel Taylor CoLERroGE. 



The flower that blooms beneath the sea, 
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie 
Hid in more chaste obscurity. 

Thomas Moore. 



SECLUDED BEAUTY, 

(.From "Lalla Kookh.") 

§H what a pure and sacred thing 
Is Beauty, curtained from the sight 
Of the gross world, illumining 

One only mansion with her light! 
Unseen by man's disturbing eye. 




C^ 



Bayard Taylor. 

THE PRESS. 

§H, the click of the type as it falls into 
line, 
And the clank of the press, make a music di- 
vine ! 
'Tis the audible footfall of thought on the page, 
The articulate beat of the heart of the age : 
As the ebbing of ocean leaves granite walls 

bare, 
And reveals to the world its great autograph 
there. 

Bayard Taylor. 



m 



MUSIC. 

USIC is well said to be the speech of angels ; in fact, nothing among the utterances 

allowed to man is felt to be so divine. It brings us near to the Infinite ; we look for 

moments, across the cloudy elements, into the eternal sea of light, when song leads 

^ and inspires us. Serious nations, all nations that can still listen to the mandate of 

nature, have prized song and music as the highest; as a vehicle for worship, for prophecy, 

and for whatsoever in them was divine. Their singer was a vates, admitted to the council of 

the universe, friend of the gods, and choicest benefactor to man. 

Thomas Cari^yle, 




^y/^4^«7-'»n-C-^ >^t.,X/-t/-'K'*^ 



404 



POEMS OF BEAUTY. 



SOiN'G OF STEAM. 

f%T ARiNESS me down with your iron bands, 

K[ Be sure of your curb and rein ; 

For I scorn the power of your puny hands, 

As the tempest scorns a chain ; 
How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight 

For many a countless hour. 
At the childish boast of human might, 

And the pride of human power ! 

IVTien I saw an army upon the land, 

A navy upon the seas, 
Creeping along, a snail-like band, 

Or waiting the wayward breeze ; 
When I marked the peasant faintly reel 

"With the toil which he daily bore, 
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, 

Or tugged at the weary oar ; 

When I measured the panting courser's speed. 

The flight of the carrier-dove. 
As they bore the law a king decreed. 

Or the lines of impatient love ; 
I could not but think how the world would 
feel. 

As these were outstripped afar. 
When I should be bound to the rushing keel. 

Or chained to the flying car. 

Ha! Ha! Ha! they found me at last ; 

They invited me forth at length ; 
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder- 
blast, 

And laughed in my iron strength. 
Oh, then ye saw a wondrous change 

On the earth and the ocean wide. 
Where now my flery armies range, 

Nor wait for wind or tide. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er. 

The mountain's steep decline. 
Time, space, have yielded to my power; 



The world, the world is mine : 
The rivers the sun hath earliest blessed, 

Or those where his last beams shine. 
The giant streams of the queenly West, 

Or the Orient floods divine ! 

The ocean pales where'er I sweep, 

To hear my strength rejoice ; 
And the monsters of the briny deep 

Cower, trembling, at my voice. 
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth. 

The thoughts of his godlike mind ; 
The wind lags after my going forth. 

And the lightning is left behind. 

In the darksome depths of the fathomless 
mine, 

My tireless arm doth play ; 
Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, 

Or the dawn of the glorious day, 
I bring earth's glittering jewels up 

From the hidden caves below. 
And I make thy fountain's granite cup 

With a crystal gush o'erflow. 

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, 

In all the shops of trade ; 
I hammer the oar, and turn the wheel. 

Where thy arms of strength are made ; 
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint; 

I carry, I spin, I weave ; 
And all my doings I put into print 

On every Saturday eve. 

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay. 

No bones to be laid on the shelf; 
And soon I intend you shall go and play. 

While I manage this world by myself. 
But harness me down with your iron bands. 

Be sure of your curb and rein, 
For I scorn the power of your puny hands. 

As the tempest scorns a chain. 

George Washington Cutter. 




I 




'POEM^ Of pEf^^ON^ AND j^HARACTEI^p. 



■B AFTERKOOK. 

^m TW^^ farmer sat in his easy chair, 
^^B' "P Smoking his pipe of clay, 

iB While his hale old wife, with busy care, 
" Was clearing the dinner away ; 

A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, 

On her grandfather's knee, was catching flies. 

The old man laid his hand on her head. 

With a tear on his wrinkled face ; 
He thought how often her mother, dead. 

Had sat in the selfsame place ; 
As the tear stole down from his half-shut 

eye, 
''Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it 
makes you cry !" 

The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor. 
Where the shade afternoons used to steal ; 

The busy old wife by the open door 
Was turning the spinning wheel , 

And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree 

Had plodded along to almost three. 

Still the farmer sat in his easy chair, 
While, close to his heaving breast, 



The moistened brow, and the cheek so fair 

Of his sweet grand-child were pressed ; 
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay ; 
Fast asleep were they both, that summer 
day! 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 



LITTLE BROWJ^ HAJfDS. 

(The following lines, said to have been written by a girl 
fifteen years old, are pronounced by John Boyle O'Reilly 
the finest words he ever read. He published them four 
times, and declared he liked them better every time he 
read them.) 

f^HEY drive home the cows from the pas- 
F ture 

Up thro' the long, shady lane. 
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat 
field 
That is yellow with ripening grain. 



They find in the thick, waving grasses 
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows; 

They gather the earliest snowdrops 
And the first crimson buds of the rose. 



408 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



They toss the hay in the meadow, 
They gather the elder-bloom white ; 

They find where the dusky grapes purple 
In the soft-tinted October light. 

They know where the apples hang ripest 
And are sweeter than Italy's wines ; 

They know where the fruit hangs thickest 
On the long, thorny blackberry vines. 

They gather the delicate seaweeds. 
And build tiny castles of sand ; 

They pick up the beautiful seashells, 
Eairy barks, that have drifted to land, 



They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops, 
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings •, 

And at night time are folded in slumber 
By a song that a fond mother sings. 

Those who toil bravely are strongest. 
The humble and poor become great ; 

And from those brown-handed children 
Shall grow mighty rulers of state. 

The pen of the author and statesman, 
The noble and wise of our land — 

The sword and the chisel, and palette, 
Shall be held in the little brown hand. 

Anonymous. 




" She milked into a wooden pail, 
And sang a country ditty." 



THE MILKIJYG-MAID. 



fHE year stood on its equinox, 
And bluff the North was blowing, 
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, 

Green hardy things were growing ; 
I met a maid with shining locks 
Where milky kine were lowing. 

She wore a kerchief on her neck. 
Her bare arm showed its dimple. 

Her apron spread without a speck. 
Her air was frank and simple. 

She milked into a wooden pail, 

And sang a country ditty, 
An innocent fond lover's tale, 



That was not wise nor witty. 
Pathetically rustical. 
Too pointless for the city. 

She kept in time without a beat, 
As true as church-bell ringers. 

Unless she tapped time with her feet, 
Or squeezed it with her fingers ; 

Her queer unstudied notes were sweet 
As many a practiced singer's. 

I stood a minute out of sight, 

Stood silent for a minute. 
To eye the pail, and creamy white 

The frothing milk within it, 



I 



POEMS OF PERSOKS AND CHARACTEKS. 



40d 



To eye the comely milking-maid, 

Herself so fresh and creamy. 
" Good day to you I" at last I said ; 

She turned her head to see me. 
" Good day !" she said with lifted head ; 

Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. 

And all the while she milked and milked 

The grave cow heavy-laden : 
I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked, 

But not a sweeter maiden ; 
But not a sweeter, fresher maid 

Than this in homely cotton. 
Whose pleasant face and silky braid 

I have not yet forgotten. 

Seven springs have passed since then, as I 

Count with sober sorrow ; 
Seven springs have come and passed me by. 

And spring sets in to-morrow. 

I've half a mind to shake myself 
Free, just for once, from London, 

To set my work upon the shelf, 
And leave it done or undone ; 

To run down by the early train, 
Whirl down with shriek and whistle, 

And feel the bluif north blow again. 
And mark the -sprouting thistle 

Set up on waste patch of the lane 
Its green and tender bristle ; 

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks. 
Crisp primrose-leaves and others. 

And watch the lambs leap at their pranks, 
And butt their patient mothers. 

Alas ! one point in all my plan 
My serious thoughts demur to : 

Seven years have passed for maid and man. 
Seven years have passed for her too. • 

Perhaps my rose is overblown, 

Not rosy or too rosy ; 
Perhaps in farm-house of her own 

Some husband keeps her cosy, 
Where I should show a face unknown. 

Good-by, my wayside posy ! 

Christiana Georgiana Rossetti. 



The gloomy battle for himself alone ? 
Or through the dark of the o'erhanging 
cloud 
Look wistfully for light ? Who would not 

groan 
. Beneath his daily task, and weep aloud ? 

But little children take us by the hand, 

And gaze with trustful cheer into our eyes ; 
Patience and Fortitude beside us stand 
In woman's shape, and waft to heaven our 
sighs. 

Frederick Tenxyson. 



WOMEjY AJVD CEILDREJf. 

§H! if no faces were beheld on earth 
But toiling manhood and repining age. 
No welcome eyes of innocence and mirth 
To look upon us kindly, who would wage 



THE BACKWOODSMAJV. 

fMHE silent wilderness for me ! 
■'p Where never sound is heard. 
Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot, 

And the flitting wing of bird, 
Or its low and interrupted note. 

Or the deer's quick, crackling tread. 
And the swaying of the forest boughs, 

As the wind moves overhead. 

Alone — how glorious to be free ! — 

My good dog at my side. 
My rifle hanging on my arni 

I range the forests wide ; 
And now the regal buffalo 

Across the plains I chase. 
Now track the mountain stream, to find 

The beaver's lurking-place. 



My palace, built by God's own hand, 

The world's fresh prime hath seen. 
While stretch its living halls away. 

Pillared and roofed with green. 
My music is the wind, that now 

Pours loud its swelling bars. 
Now lulls in dying cadences ; 

My festal lamps, the stars. 



And in these solitary haunts. 

While slumbers every tree 
In night and silence, God himself 

Seems nearer unto me. 
I feel his presence in these shades. 

Like the embracing air, 
And as my eyelids close in sleep, 

My heart is hushed in prayer. 

O. W. B. Peabody. 




"Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore." 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



411 



FROM LITTLE RED RIDIJVG 
HOOD. 

fHE fields were covered over 
With colors as she went , 
Daisies, buttercups and clover 
Below her footsteps bent ; 
Summer shed its shining store ; 
She was happy as she pressed them 

Beneath her little feet ; 
She plucked them and caressed them, 
They were so very sweet ; 
They had never seemed so sweet before 

To Red Riding Hood, the darling. 
The flower of fairy lore. 

She seems like an ideal love. 

The poetry of childhood shown. 
And yet loved with a real love, 
As if she were our own, 
A younger sister for the heart. 
Like the woodland pheasant, 

Her hair is brown and bright ; 
And her smile is pleasant 
With its rosy light. 
Never can the memory part 
With Red Riding Hood, the darling. 
The flower of fairy lore. 

Too long in the meadow staying. 

Where the cowslip bends. 
With the buttercups delaying 
As with early friends. 
Did the little maiden stay. 
Sorrowful the tale for us ; 

We, too, loiter 'mid life's flowers, 
A little while so glorious. 
So soon lost in darker hours. 
All love lingering on their way 
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling. 
The flower of fairy lore. 

IjETITIA E. La]ST)ON. 

(Mrs. L. E. L. McLean.) 

AULD ROB MORRIS. 

f HERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in 
yon glen, 
He's the king o' good fellows and wale of auld 

men: 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May, 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new 
hay; 



As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the 

lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But O, she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has naught but a cot-house 

and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 

■55- * * -X- * 

O, had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might hae hope she wad smiled upon me ! 
O, how past describing had then been my bliss. 
As now my distraction no words can express! 

Robert Burns. 



THE HUSBAJVDMAJV. 

Tl^ ARTH, of man the bounteous mother, 
M£ Feeds him still with corn and wine ; 
He who best would aid a brother 
Shares with him these gifts divine. 

Many a power w ithin her bosom. 
Noiseless, hidden, w^orks beneath ; 

Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, 
Golden ear, and clustered wreath. 

These to swell with strength and beauty 

Is the royal task of man ; 
Man's a king, his throne is duty. 

Since his work on earth began. 

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage, 
These, like man, are fruits of earth; 

Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage, 
All from dust receive their birth. 

Barn and mill, and wine-vat's treasures. 
Earthly goods, for earthly lives. 

These are Nature's ancient pleasures, 
These her child from her derives. 

What the dream but vain rebelling. 
If from earth we sought to flee ? 

'Tis our stored and ample dwelling, 
'Tis from it the skies we see. 

Wind and frost, and hour and season, 
Land and water, sun and shade. 

Work with these, as bides thy reason, 
For they work thy toil to aid. 

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness : 

Man himself is all a seed ; 
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness. 

Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 

John Stirling. 



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POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



413 



m 



MEJ^ OF GEJflUS GEKERALLY CHEERFUL, 

EN of truly great powers of mind have generally been cheerful, social, and indul- 
gent ; while a tendency to sentimental whining or tierce intolerance may be ranked 
among the surest symptoms of little souls and inferior intellects. In the whole list 
^ of our English poets we can only remember Shenstone and Savage — two certainly of 
the lowest — who were querulous and discontented. Cowley, indeed, used to call himself mel- 
ancholy ; but he was not in earnest, and at any rate, was full of conceits and affectations, and 
has nothing to make us proud of him. Shakspere, the greatest of them all, was evidently of 
a free and joyous temperament; and so was Chaucer, their common master. The same dis- 
position appears to have predominated in Fletcher, Jonson, and their great contemporaries. 
The genius of Milton partook something of the austerity of the party to which he belonged, 
and of the controversies in which he was involved ; but even when fallen on evil days and 
evil tongues, his spirit seems to have retained its serenity as well as its dignity ; and in his 
private life, as well as in his poetry, the majesty of a high character is tempered with great 
sweetness, genial indulgences, and practical wisdom. In the succeeding age our poets were 
but too gay ; and though we forbear to speak of living authors, we know enough of them to 
say with confidence, that to be miserable or to be hated is not now, any more than heretofore, 
the common lot of those who excel. 

Francis Jeffrey. 




THE VICAR. 



^ OME years ago, ere time and taste 
S) Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
Was always shown across the Green, 

And guided to the parson's wicket. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle 
Led the lorn traveler up the path, 

Through clean-clipped rows of box and 
myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlor steps collected. 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say : 

" Our master knows you ; you're expected." 

Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown, 

Up rose the doctor's " winsome marrow ;" 
The lady laid her knitting down. 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Bar- 
row ; 
Whate'er the stranger's cast or creed, 

Pundit or papist, samt or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed, 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end. 
And warmed himself in court or college, 



He had not gained an honest friend. 
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; 

If he departed as he came. 
With no new light on love or liquor. 

Good sooth, the traveler was to blame, 
And not the Vicarage or the Yicar. 

His talk was like a stream which runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
It slipped from politics to puns ; 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses. 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound divine, 

Of loud dissent the mortal terror ; 
And when by dint of page and line. 

He 'stablished truth or startled error, 
The Baptist found him far too deep ; 

The deist sighed with saving sorrow ; 
And the lean Levite went to sleep 

And dreamed of eating pork to-morrow. 

His sermon never said or showed 

That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome or from Athanasius ; 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 



414 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



The hand and head that penned and plan- 
ned them, 
For all who understood admired, 
And some who did not understand them. 

He wrote, too, in a quiet way, 

Small treatises, and smaller verses. 
And sage remarks on chalk and clay. 

And hints to noble lords and nurses ; 
True histories of last year's ghost ; 

Lines to a ringlet or a turban. 
And trifles for the " Morning Post," 

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 

He did not think all mischief fair. 

Although he had a knack of joking ; 
He did not make himself a bear, 

Although he had a taste for smoking ; 
And when religious sects ran mad, 

He held, in spite of all his learning, 
That, if a man's belief is bad. 

It will not be improved by burning. 

And he w^as kind, and loved to sit 

In the low hut or garnished cottage. 
And praise the farmer's homely wit. 

And share the widow's homelier pottage. 
At his approach complaint grew mild, 

And when his hand unbarred the shutter, 
The clammy lips of fever smiled 

The welcome that they could not utter. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Caesar or of Venus ; 
From him I learned the rule of three. 

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and quae genus ; 
I used to singe his powdered wig, 

To steal the staff he put such trust in. 
And make the puppy dance a jig 

When he began to quote Augustine. 

Alack the change ! in vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled ; 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled ! 
The church is larger than before ; 

You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
It holds three hundred people more. 

And pews are fitted for the gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat ; you^ll hear 
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 

Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear. 
Whose tone is very Ciceronian. 

Where is the old man laid ? Look down 
And construe on the slab before you : 



'"'' Hie jacet Gulielmus Browriy 
Vir nulla non donandus lauray 

WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PraED. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

fNDER a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face. 

For he owes not any man. 

Week-in, week-out, from morn till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
With measured beat and slow. 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge. 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more. 

How in the grave she lies ; ^ 

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing. 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begun. 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



k 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



415 



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy- 
friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught : 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 



Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 
Heney Wadsworth Longfeixow. 




" Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands." 



WILL paint her as I see her : 
Ten times have the lilies blown 
Since she looked upon the sun. 



A PORTRAIT. . 

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading off to air ; 



And her face is lily-clear, 
Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 



And a forehead fair and saintly. 
Which two blue eyes undershine, 
Like meek prayers before a shrine. 



416 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



Face and figure of a child, 
Though too calm, you think, and tender, 
For the childhood you would lend her ; 

Yet child-simple, undeflled, 
Frank, obedient, waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 

Moving light, as all young things. 
As young birds, or early wheat 
When the wind blows over it. 

Only free from flutterings 
Of loud mirth that scorneth measure ; 
Taking love for her chief pleasure. 

Choosing pleasures, for the rest, 
AVhich come softly ; just as she, 
When she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she liketh best. 
In a bower of gentle looks, 
Watering flowers or reading books. 

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, 
As a silver stream may run. 
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 

And her smile, it seems half holy. 
As if drawn from thoughts more far 
Than our common jestings are. 

And if any poet knew her, 
He would sing of her with falls 
Used in lovely madrigals. 

And if any painter drew her. 
He would paint her, unaware, 
With a halo round her hair. 

And if reader read the poem. 
He would whisper : " You have done a 
Consecrated little Una!" 

And a dreamer, did you show him 
That same picture, would exclaim : 
" 'Tis my angel, with a name I" 

And a stranger, when he sees her 
In the street even, smileth stilly, 
Just as you would at a lily. 

And all voices that address her 
Soften, sleeken every word. 
As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 
The hard earth whereon she passes 
With thymy-scented grasses 

And all hearts do pray : " God love her !" 
Aye, and always, in good sooth, 
We may all be sure He doth. 

EHZARETH BaRKETT BrOWNING, 



JAFFAR. 

jTAFFAR, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, 
QJ The poor man's hope, the friend without 

a peer, 
Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust ; 
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust 
Of what the good and e'en the bad might say. 
Ordained that no man living from that day 
Should dare to speak his name on pain of 

death. 
All Araby and Persia held their breath. 

All but the brave Mondeer. He, proud to 

show 
How far for love a grateful soul could go. 
And facing death for very scorn and grief, 
(For his great heart wanted a great relief), 
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square 
Where once had stood a happy house; and 

there 
Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar 
On all they owed to the divine Jafiar. 

"Bring me this man," the caliph cried. The 

man 
Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes 

began 
To bind his arms. " Welcome, brave cords," 

cried he ; 
*' From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me ; 
From wants, from shames, from loveless 

household fears ; 
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious 

tears ; 
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par 
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar ?" 

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this 
The mightiest vengeance would but fall 

amiss, 
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of 

fate 
Might smile upon another half as great. 
He said, '• Let worth grow frenzied if it will ; 
The caliph's judgment shall be master still. 
Go; and since gifts thus move thee, take this 

gem. 
The richest in the Tartar's diadem. 
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit." 

" Gifts !" cried the friend. He took, and hold- 
ing it 

High towards the heavens, as though to meet 
his star, 

Exclaimed, ''This, too, I owe to thee, Jaf- 
far!" Leigh Hunt, 




£^£(1 h^o^M7€^ft^(;z{n^€^. 



2a 



418 POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 

THE CHARACTER OF FALSTAFF. 

(From "The Characters of Shakspere's Plays.") 

"ALSTAFF'S wit is an emanation of a fine constitution; an exuberation of good-humour 



and good-nature; an overflowing of his love of laughter and good-fellowship; a giv- 
ing vent to his heart's ease and over-contentment with himself and others. He would 
not be in character if he were not so fat as he is ; for there is the greatest keeping in 
the boundless luxury of his imagination and the pampered self-indulgence of his physical 
appetites. He manures and nourishes his mind with jests, as he does his body with sack and 
sugar. He carves out his jokes as he would a capon or a haunch of venison, where there is 
cut and come again ; and pours out upon them the oil of gladness. His tongue drops fatness, 
and in the chambers of his brain "it snows of meat and drink." He keeps up perpetual holi- 
day and open house, and we live with him in a round of invitations to a rump and dozen. 
Yet we are not to suppose that he was a mere sensualist. All this is as much in imagination as 
in reality. His sensuality does not engross and stupefy his other faculties, but "ascends me 
into the brain, clears away all the dull crude vapours that environ it, and makes it full of 
nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes." His imagination keeps up the ball after his senses have 
done with it. He seems to have even a greater enjoyment of the freedom from restraint, of 
good cheer, of his ease, of his vanity, in the ideal exaggerated description which he gives of 
them, than in fact. He never fails to enrich his discourse with allusions to eating and drink- 
ing ; but we never see him at table. He carries his own larder about with him and he is 
himself "a tun of man." His pulling out the bottle in the field of battle is a joke to show his 
contempt for glory accompanied with danger, his systematic adherence to his Epicurean 
philosophy in the most trying circumstances. Again, such is his deliberate exaggeration of 
his own vices, that it does not seem quite certain whether the account of his hostess' bill 
found in his pocket, with such an out-of-the-way charge for capons and sack, with only one- 
half penny-worth of bread, was not put there by himself as a trick to humour the jest upon 
his favorite propensities, and as a conscious caricature of himself. He is represented as a 
liar, a braggart, a coward, a glutton, etc., and yet we are not offended, but delighted with 
him ; for he is all these as much to amuse others as to gratify himself. He openly assumes all 
these characters to show the humourous part of them. The unrestrained indulgence of his 
own ease, appetites, and convenience, has neither malice nor hypocrisy in it. In a word, he 
is an actor in himself almost as much as upon the stage, and we no more object to the char- 
acter of Falstaff in a moral point of view, than we should think of bringing an excellent 
comedian who should represent him to the life, before one of the police-offices. 

WiLLLOi Hazlitt. 
o 

THE OLD MIXSTREL. 

(From the Introduction to "The Lay of the Last MinstreL") 

E passed where Newark's stately tower His timid mien, and reverend face. 

Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower; And bade her page the menials tell 

Tlie minstrel gazed with wistful eye ; That they should use the old man well ; 

No humbler resting-place was nigh ; For she liad known adversity, 

With hesitating step at last. Though born in such a high degree ; 

The embattled portal arch he passed. In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, 

Whose ponderous grate and massy bar Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb. 
Had oft rolled back the tide of war, 

But never closed the iron door When kindness had his wants supplied, 

Against the desolate and poor. And the old man was gratified, 

The Duchess marked his weary pace^ 3egan to ris^ his miustrel pride \ 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



419 



And he began to talk anon 
Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone, 
And of Earl Walter, rest him, God! 
A braver ne'er to battle rode ; 
And how full many a tale he knew 
Of the old warriors of Buccleugh ; 
And would the noble Duchess deign 
To listen to an old man's strain ? 
Though stiff his hand, his voice though 

weak. 
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak. 
That, if she loved the harp to hear, 
He could make music to her ear. 



The humble boon was soon obtained : 
The aged minstrel audience gained. 
But when he reached the room of state. 
Where she with all her ladies sate, 
Perchance he wished the boon denied ; 
For when to tune his harp he tried, 
His trembling hand had lost the ease 
Which marks security to please ; 
And scenes long past, of joy and pain. 
Come wildering o'er his aged brain ; — 
He tried to tune his harp in vain! 
The pitying Duchess praised its chime, 
And gave him heart, and gave him time, 



Till every string's according glee 
Was blended into harmony. 
And then, he said, he would full fain 
He could recall an ancient strain 
He never thought to sing again. 

It was not framed for village churls. 

But for high dames and mighty earls ; 

He had played it to King Charles the Good, 

When he kept court in Holyrood ; 

And much he wished, yet feared to try 

The long-forgotten melody. 

Amid the strings his finger strayed. 

And an uncertain warbling made. 

And oft he shook his hoary head ; 

And when he caught the measure wild, 

The old man raised his face, and smiled, 

And lightened up his faded eye 

With all a poet's ecstasy ! 

In varying cadence, soft or strong, 

He swept the sounding chords along ; 

The present scene, the future lot. 

His toils, his wants, were all forgot ; 

Cold diffidence, and age's frost, 

In the full tide of song were lost ; 

Each blank in faithless memory void 

The poet's glowing thought supplied. 

Sir Walter Scott. 




'With what free growth the elm and plane 
Fling their huge arms across my way." 



THE PRAIRIE HUJVTER, 



Y, this is freedom! These pure skies 
Were never stained with village smoke 5 



The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 
Is breathed frpm wastes byplows unbroke, 



420 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



Here, with my rifle and my steed, 
And her who left the world for me, 

I plant me, where the red deer feed, 
In the green desert, and am free. 

For here the fair savannas know 
No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 

Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 
Or beam of heaven may gleam, I pass. 

In pastures measureless as air, 
The bison is my noble game ; 

The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
The branches, fall beneath my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 
From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 



The bear, that marks my rifle's gleam, 
Hides vainly in the forest's edge. 

In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs, to watch his prey. 

E'en in the act of springing, dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 
Fling their huge arms across my way, 

Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
* * * * * 

Here, from dim woods, the aged past 
Speaks solemnly, and I behold 

The boundless future in the vast 
And lonely river, sea-ward rolled. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



iKfiJ^ pY^^f^ M-o^X^ '^v^^^^^^i^cW^ a^^^Ajd 

^ IfLcJc -y Lff I>ee^ Lu Jl (^ ft<^ ^ 



THE PLOWMAJ^, 



i^LEAR the brown path, to meet his coul- 
VS' ter's gleam! 

Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team, 
With toil's bright dewdrops on his sunburnt 

brow. 
The lord of earth, the hero of tbe plow ! 
First in the field before the reddening sun, 
Last in tbe shadows when the day is done, 



Line after line, along the bursting sod, 
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod; 
Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods di- 
vide, 
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and 

wide; 
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, 
:^Ie^ow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves, 



iii 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



421 



Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train 
Slants the long track that scores the level 

plain ; 
Through the moist valley, clogged with ooz- 
ing clay, 
The patient convoy breaks its destined way; 
At every turn the loosening chains resound. 
The swinging plowshare circles glistening 

round. 
Till the wide fleld a billowy waste appears, 
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. 



How thy sweet features, kind to every clime. 
Mock w ith their smile the wrinkled front of 

Time ! 
We stain thy flowers, they blossom o'er the 

dead; 
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ; 
O'er the red field that trampling strife has 

torn 
Waves the green plumage of thy tasseled 

corn ; 
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain, 




'Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team, 
The lord of earth, the hero of the plow I" 



These are the hands whose sturdy labor 
brings 

The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; 

This is the page, whose letters shall be seen 

Changed by the sun to words of living green ; 

This is the scholar, whose immortal pen 

Spells the flrsfc lesson hunger taught to men ; 

These are the lines which heaven-command- 
ed Toil 

Shows on his deed — the charter of the soil. 

O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast 
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest, 



Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 
Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms 
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing 

arms. 
Let not our virtues in thy love decay, 
And thy fond sweetness waste our strength 

away. 

No ! by these hills, whose banners now dis- 
played 
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ; 



By 



yon twin 
crests 



summits, on whose splintery 



m 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHAIIAOTERS. 



The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests ; 
By these fair plains the mountain circle 

screens, 
And feeds with streamlets from its dark ra- 
vines, 
True to their home, these faithful arms shall 

toil 
To crown with peace their own untainted 

soil; 
And true to God, to freedom, to mankind. 
If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind, 
These stately forms, that, bending even now. 
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble 

plow. 
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land. 
The same stern iron in the same right hand. 
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run ; 
The sword has rescued what the plowshare 
won! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE POOR PAESOJV. 

(From "Canterbury Tales.") 

(That Chaucer -was an adherent of Wiclif is proved by 
many things, but by none more clearly than the following 
passage from his great -work. The name "Poor Priest" 
or "Parson" was given in derision to Wiclifite preach- 
ers; and tlie virtues here enumerated were lacking sadly, 
theReformer claimed, in the great mass of the clergy of 
the time.) 

TM GOOD man was ther of religioun, 
^^1 And v.as a poure Parsoun of a toun ; 
But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk 
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche ; 
Hisparisschens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversite ful pacient ; 
And such he was i-proved ofte sithes. 
Ful loth were him to curse for his tythes. 
But rather wolde he geven out of dowte. 
Unto his poure parisschensaboute. 
Of his offrynge, and eek of his substaunce. 
He cowde in litel thing ban suffisaunce. 
Wyd was his parisch, and houses fer asonder. 
But he ne lafte not for reyne ne thonder. 
In siknessenor in meschief tovisite 
The ferreste in his parissche, moche and lite, 
Uppon his feet, and in his bond a staf. 
This noble ensample to his scheep he gaf. 
That first he wroughte, and after that he 

taughte, 
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte, 
And this figure he addede eek therto, 



That if gold ruste, what schal yren do ? 
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, 
No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; . . . . 
He sette not his benefice to byre. 
And leet his scheep encombred in the myre. 
And ran to Londone, unto seynte Poules, 
To seeken him a chaunterie for soules. 
Or with a bretherhede to ben withholde ; 
But dwelte at boom, and keepte wel his folde. 
So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye. 
He was a schepherde and no mercenarie ; 
And though he holy were, and vertuous, 
He was to sinful man nought dispitous, 
Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne. 
But in his teching discret and benigne. 
To drawe folk to heven by fairnesse. 
By good ensample, this was his busynesse : 
But it were eny person obstinat, 
What so he were, of high or lowe estat, 
Him wolde he snybbe scharply for the nones. 
A bettre preest I trowe ther nowher non is. 
He waytede after no pompe and reverence, 
Ne makede him a spiced conscience. 
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve. 
He taughte, and first he fowlede it himselve. 
Geoffrey Chaucer. 



UJfSEEJ^ SPIRITS. 

f^HE shadows lay along Broadway ; 
W 'T was near the twilight-tide ; 
And slowly there a lady fair 

Was walking in her pride. 
Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 

Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 

And Honor charmed the air; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair ; 
For all God ever gave to her. 

She kept with chary care. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 

From lovers warm and true ; 
For her heart was cold to all but gold, 

And the rich came not to woo ; 
But honored well are charms that sell, 

If priests the selling do. 

Now walking there was one more fair : 

A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail ; 



POEMS OF PERSONS AiCD CHAIIACTEIIS. 



423 



'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, 
And nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow, 
For this world's peace to pray ; 



For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
Her woman's heart gave way ; 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven, 
By man is cursed alway. 

Kathamel Pabker Willis. 








"TSCx- t^i^Ii^^^ ^^^i<eZ^ /^^^^-y^ 



U/- 




THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 



n H me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn, 
J^ To think how modest worth neglected 

lies. 
While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn 

Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp dis- 
guise; 

Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize. 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 

To sound the praise of Merit ere it dies, 
Such as I oft have chanced to espy 

Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 



In every village marked with little spire, 
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to 
fame. 
There dwells, in lowly shades and mean at- 
tire, 
A matron old, whom we School-mistress 

name; 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to 
tame; 
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Awed by the power of this relentless dame, 



424 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



And oft-times, on vagaries idly ¥ent, 
For unkempt hair, or task unconned. are sore- 
ly shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. 
Which Learning near her little dome did 
stow, 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 
Though now so wide its waving branches 

flow. 
And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
For not a wind might curl the leaves that 
blew, 
But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse 
beat low ; 
And, as they looked, they found their horror 

grew. 
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the 
view. 

So have I seen (who has not may conceive) 

A lifeless phantom near a garden placed, 
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 

Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 

They start, they stare, they wheel, they look 
aghast ; 
Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! 
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, 
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss de- 
stroy. 

Near to this dome is found a patch so green, 
On which the tribe their gambols do dis- 
play, 
And at the door imprisoning board is seen, 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should 

stray 
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day I 
The noises intermixed, which thence resound. 

Do learning's little tenement betray ; 
There sits the dame disguised in look pro- 
found. 
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her 
wheel around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. 

Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; 
Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, 
As is the harebell that adorns the held ; 
And in her hand for scepter she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear en- 
twined. 
With dark mistrust and sad repentance fill- 
ed; 



And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join- 
ed, 

And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement un- 
kind. 

Few but have kenned, in semblance meet por- 
trayed. 
The childish faces of old Eol's train. 
Libs, Notus, Auster ; these in frowns arrayed. 
How then would fare or earth, or sky, or 

main, 
Were the stern god to give his slaves the 
rein ? 
And were she not rebellious breasts to quell. 
And were she not her statutes to maintain. 
The cot no more, I ween, were deemed the 

cell 
Where comely peace of mind and decent or- 
der dwell. 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown, 

A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 
'Twas her own country bred the flock so 

fair, 
'Twas her own labor did the fleece pre- 
pare; 
And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around. 
Through pious awe, did term it passing 
rare ; 
For they in gaping wonderment abound. 
And think, no doubt, she ben the greatest 
wight on ground. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; 
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; 
Yet these she challenged, these she held 
right dear, 
Ne would esteem him act as mought behoove. 
Who should not honored eld with these re- 
vere ; 
For never title yet so mean could prove. 
But there was eke a mind which did that title 
love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame, 

Which, ever and anon, impelled by need. 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came. 
Such favor did her past deportment claim ; 

And if neglect had lavished on the ground 
Fragment of bread, she would collect the 
same: 



POEMS 01^ rEESOI^S AND CHAEACTEItS. 



4^5 



For well slie knew and quaintly could ex- And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue, 

pound And plaintain ribbed, that heals the reap- 

What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb er's wound ; 

I she found. And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posy- 
found ; 

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could And lavender, whose pikes of azure bloom 

^P^ak, Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound, 

That in her garden sipped the silvery dew. To lurk amid the labors of her loom. 




"A matron old, whom we School-mistress name; 
"Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame." 



Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy 
streak, 
But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, 
Of gray renown within these borders grew ; 
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. 

Fresh balm and marigold of cheerful hue, 
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb, 
And more I fain would sing , disdaining here 
to rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung. 
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues 
around ; 



And crown her kerchief clean with mickle 
rare perfume. 

And here trim rose-marine, that whilom 
crowned 

The daintiest garden of the proudest peer, 
Ere driven from its envied site, it found 

A sacred shelter for its branches here, 

Where edged with gold its glittering skirts 
appear. 
wassail days ! O customs meet and well ! 

Ere this was banished from its lofty sphere, 
Simplicity then sought this humble cell. 



m 



POEMS 0^ PERSONS AND CHAHACTEItS. 



Nor ever would she more with thane and 
lordling dwell. 

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, 

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did 
mete; 
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, 

But in her garden found a summer seat. 

Sweet melody ; to hear her then repeat 
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, 

While taunting foemen did a song entreat," 
All for the nonce untuning every string, 

Uphung their useless lyres ; small heart had 
they to sing ! 

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore. 
And passed much time in truly virtuous 
deed; 
And In those elfins' ears would oft deplore 
The times when truth by popish rage did 

bleed. 
And tortuous death was true devotion's 
meed, 
And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, 
That nould on wooden image placed her 
creed, 
And lawny saints in smould'ring flames did 

burn. 
Ah, dearest Lord, forfend those days should 
e'er return I 

In elbow chair, like that of Scottish stem, 
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld de- 
faced, 
In which when he receives his diadem. 

Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is 

placed. 
The matron sate ; and some with rank she 
graced 
(The source of children's and of courtier's 
pride), 
Redressed affronts, for vile afironts there 
passed ; 
And warned them not the fretful to deride. 
But love each other dear, whatever them be- 
tide. 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to 
raise. 
Some with vile copper prize exalt on high. 
And some entice with pittance small of 

praise, 
And other some with baleful sprig she frays; 
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 



"While with quaint arts the giddy crowd 

she sways ; 
Forewarned if little bird their pranks behold, 
'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene 

unfold. 

Lo ! now with state she utters the command ! 
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; 
Their books, of stature small, they take in 
hand, 
Which witli pellucid horn secured are. 
To save from finger wet the letters fair ; 
The work so gay that on their backs is seen, 
St. George's high achievements does de- 
clare. 
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been. 
Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, 
I ween. 

Ah, luckless he! and born beneath the beam 
Of evil star! it irks me while I write ! 

As erst the bard, by Mulla's silver stream. 
Oft as he told of deadly dolorous plight. 
Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. 

For brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
To loose the brogues, the stripling's late de- 
light! 

And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin, 

Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. 

Oh ruthful scene ! when from a nook obscure 

His little sister doth his peril see ! 
All playful as she sat, she grows demure, 

She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee ; 

She meditates a prayer to set him free, 
ISTor gentle pardon could this dame deny. 

If gentle pardon could with dames agree. 
To her sad grief that swells in either eye, 
And wrings her so that all for pity she could 
die. 

No longer can she now her shrieks command ; 

And hardly she forbears, through awful 
fear. 
To rushen forth, and with presumptuous 
hand. 

To stay harsh justice in its mid career. 

On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear! 
Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow ! 

She sees no kind domestic visage near. 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow. 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 

But ah! what pen his piteous plight may 
trace. 
Or what device his loud laments explain ? 



POEMS OF PERSON'S AND CHARACTERS. 



427 



The form uncouth of his disguised face, 
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? 
The plenteous shower that does his cheeks 
disdain, 
When he, in ahject-wise, implores the dame, 

Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
Or when from high she levels well her aim, 
And through the thatch his cries each falling 
stroke proclaim. 

The other tribe, aghast with sore dismay, 

Attend and con iheir tasks with mickle care; 
By turns, astonied, every twig survey, 
And from their fellow's hateful wound be- 
ware. 
Knowing, I wis, how each the same may 

share ; 
Till fear has taught them a performance meet. 
And to the well-known chest the dame re- 
pair. 
Whence oft with sugared cates she doth 'em 

greet. 
And gingerbread y-rare, now certes, doubly 
sweet. 

See, to their seats they hie with merry glee. 

And in beseemly order sitten there ; 
All but the wight of bum y-galled ; he 
Abhorreth bench, and stool, and form, and 

chair ; 
This hand in mouth y-flxed, that rends his 
hair ; 
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving 
breast. 
Convulsions intermitting ! does declare 
His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust behest; 
And scorns her proffered love, and shuns to be 
caressed. 

His face besprent with liquid crystal, shines. 
His blooming face, that seems a purple 
flower. 
Which low to earth its drooping head de- 
clines, 
All smeared and sullied by a vernal shower ! 
O the hard bosoms of despotic power ! 
All, all but she, the author of his shame. 

All, all but she, regret this mournful hour ; 
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower 

shall claim. 
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and 
fame. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought. 
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines ; 



Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, 
But to the wind all merriment resigns, 
And deems it shame if he to peace inclines; 

And many a sullen look askance is sent. 
Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; 

And still the more to pleasure him she's bent. 

The more doth he, perverse, her 'havior past 
resent. 

Ah me ! how much I fear lest pride it be ! 

But if that pride it be, which thus inspires. 

Beware, ye dames ; with nice discernment see 

Ye quench not, too, the sparks of nobler 

fires. 
Ah, better far than all the Muses' lyres. 
All coward arts, is valor's generous heat ; 
The firm fixed breast which fit and right re- 
quires. 
Like Vernon's patriot soul, more justly great 
Than craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false 
deceit ! 

Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits ap- 
pear! 
E'en now sagacious Foresight points to show 
A little heedless bench of bishops here. 
And there a chancellor in embryo, 
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so. 
As Shakspere, Milton, names that ne'er shall 
die! 
Though now he crawl along the ground so 
low, 
Nor weeting that the Muse should soar on 

high. 
Wishing, poor starveling elf, his paper kite 
may fly ! 

And this, perhaps, who censuring the design, 
Low lays the house which that of cards doth 
build. 
Shall Dennis be ! if rigid Fate incline. 
And many an epic to his rage shall yield. 
And many a poet quit the Aonian field. 
And, soured by age, profound he shall appear, 
As he who, now, with 'sdainful fury thrill- 
ed. 
Surveys my work, and levels many a sneer. 
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, " What 
stuff is here ?" 

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky. 
And Liberty unbars her prison door; 

And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 
And now the grassy cirque have covered 
o'er 



42S 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; 
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, 

Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I 
implore : 
For well may freedom, erst so dearly won. 
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the 



Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, 
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest 
flowers. 
For when my bones in grass-green sods are 
laid; 
For never may you taste more careless hours 
In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers. 
O vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 
But most in courts, where proud Ambition 
towers. 
Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can 

spring 
Beneath the pompous dome of kaiser or of 
king ! 

See in each sprite some various bent appear! 

These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund 
leer 
Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; 
Some to the standing lake their courses bend, 
With pebble smooth at duck and drake to 
play; 
Thilk to the huxter's savr'y cottage tend, 
In pastry kings and queens the allotted mite to 
spend. 

Here, as each season yields a different store, 

Each season's stores in order ranged been ; 
Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er. 

Galling full sore the unmoneyed wight, are 
seen. 

And gooseberry, clad in livery red or green ; 
And here, of lovely dye, the Catharine pear. 

Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween. 
O may no wight e'er penniless come there, 

Lest smit with ardent love he pine with 
hopeless care ! 

See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound. 
With thread so white in tempting posies 
tied, 
Scattering like blooming maid their glance 
around. 
With pampering look draw little eyes aside. 
And must be bought, though penury betide. 



The plum all azure, and the nut all brown ; 

And here each season do those cakes abide, 
Whose honored names the inventive city 

owns, 
Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's 

praises known. 

Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride 
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient 
wave. 
Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, 
Her daughters lovely, and her striplings 

brave. 
Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his 
grave 
Whose art did first these dulcet cates display ! 

A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave. 
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray. 
Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on 
their way. 

William Shenstoxe. 

THE FOP. 

(From King Henry IV., Act I., Scene 3.) 

MOTSPUR. My liege, I did deny no pris- 
oners. 
But, I remember, when the fight was done. 
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil. 
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword. 
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly 

dress'd, 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new 

reap'd, 
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home ; 
He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 
He gave his nose, and took't away again ; — 
Who, therewith angry, when it next came 

there, 
Took it in snuflf; — and still he smil'd, and 

talk'd ; 
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 
He call'd them— untaught knaves, unman- 
nerly. 
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 
Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 
With many holiday and lady terms 
He question'd me ; among the rest demanded 
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf. 
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being 

cold. 
To be so pester'd with a popinjay. 
Out of my grief and my impatience, 



430 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what ; 
He should, or lie should not ;— for he made me 

mad, 
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, 
Of guns, and drums, and wounds (God save 

the mark!), 
And telling me, the soverelgn'st thing on 

earth 
Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise ; 
And that it was great pity, so it was. 
That villainous saltpetre should be digg'd 
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth. 
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd 
So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, 
He would himself have been a soldier. 
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 
I answer'd indirectly, as I said ; 
And, I beseech you, let not his report 
Come current for an accusation. 
Betwixt my love and your high majesty. 

William Shakspere. 



UXA. 



M OUGHT is there under heaven's wide 
hollowness. 
That moves more dear compassion of mind. 
Than beauty brought to unworthy wretched- 
ness 
Through envy's snares or fortune's freaks un- 
kind. 
I, whether lately through, her brightness 

blind, 
Or through allegiance and fast fealty. 
Which I do owe unto all womankind. 
Feel my heart pressed with so great agony 
When such I see, that all for pity I could die. 

Yet she, most faithful lady, all this while 

Forsaken, woful, solitary maid. 

Far from all people's press, as in exile, 

In wilderness and wasteful deserts strayed, 

'I'o seek her knight ; who subtily betrayed 

Through that late vision which th' enchanter 

wrought. 
Had her abandoned ; she, of nought afraid, 
Through woods and wasteness wide him daily 

sought; 
Yet wished tidings none of him unto her 

brought. 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, 
From her unhasty beast she did alight ; 
And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay, 



In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 
From her fair head her fillet she uadight. 
And laid her stole aside ; her angel's face. 
As the great eye of heaven, shined bright. 
And made a sunshine in the shady place ; 
Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly 
grace. 

It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lion rushed suddenly, 
Hunting full greedy after salvage blood : 
Soon as the royal virgin he did spy. 
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, 
To have at once devoured her tender corse : 
But to the prey when as he drew more nigh. 
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, 
And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious 
force. 

Instead thereof, he kissed her weary feet. 
And licked her lily hands with fawning 

tongue ; 
As he her wronged innocence did meet. 
O how can beauty master the most strong. 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong, 
Whose yielded pride and proud submission. 
Still dreading death, when she had marked 

long, 
Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion ; 
And drizzling tears did shed for pure affec- 
tion. 

" The lion, lord of every beast in field," 
Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth 

abate. 
And mighty proud to humble weak does yield. 
Forgetful of the hungry rage, which late 
Him pricked, in pity of my sad estate : — 
But he, my lion, and my noble lord, 
How does he find in cruel heart to hate 
Her, that him lov'd, and ever most adored 
As the god of my life ? why hath he me ab- 
horred ?" 

Redounding tears did choke th' end of her 

plaint. 
Which softly echoed from the neighbor wood ; 
And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint. 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; 
With pity calmed, down fell his angry mood. 
At last, in close heart shutting up her pain. 
Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood, 
And to her snowy palfrey got again. 
To seek her strayed champion if she might 



POEMS 0¥ PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



431 




'The lion would not leave her desolate, 
But with her went along, as a strong guard." 



The lion woald not leave her desolate, 
But with her went along, as a strong guard 
Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate 
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard : 



Still, when she waked, he waited diligent, 
With humble service to her will prepared : 
From her fair eyes he took commandement, 
And ever by her looks conceived her intent. 
Edmund Spenser. 



THU VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

(Dr. Jolinsou, in Boswell''s Life.) 

RECEIVED one morning a message from poor Goldsmith that he w'as in great distress, 
and as it was not in his power to come to me, begging 1 would come to him as soon as 
possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. 1 accordingly 
went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, 
at w^hich he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, 
and had got a bottle of madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired 
he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. 
He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked 
into it, and saw its merit ; told the landlady I would soon return ; and having gone to a book- 
seller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, 
jiot without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill. 



432 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



DEPARTURE OF THE PILGRIMS. 

(From "The Canterbury Tales.'') 

EEFELLE that in that season on a day, That unto Canterbury wolde ride. 

In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, The chambres and the stables weren wide, 

Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage And wel we were esed and beste. 

To Canterbury with devoute corage, And shortly, when the sonne wasgon to reste, 




" Wel nine and twenty in a compagnie, 
That unto Canterbury wolde ride." 



At night was come into that hostelrie 
"Wel nine and twenty in a compagnie 
Of sondry folke, by aventure yfalle 
In folawship, and pilgrims were the alle, 



So had I spoken with hem everich on, 
That I was of hir felowship anon, 
And made forward early for to rise. 
To take our way ther as I you devise. 

Geoffrey CuAucBRf 



POEMS OF PEIISONS AND CHARACTERS. 



433 



KATHERIJ^E'S BEFEXSE, 

(From ''Kins Henry VIII.," Act II., Scene 4.) 

^UEEI^ KATH. Sir, I desire you, do me 

V^ right and justice; 

And to bestow your pity on me : for 

I am a most poor woman, and a stranger. 

Born out of your dominions ; having here 

No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance 

Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, 

In what have I offended you? what cause 

Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure. 

That thus you should proceed to put me off, 

And take your good grace from me ? Heaven 

witness, 
I have been to you a true and humble wife, 
At all times to your will comformable : 
Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, 
Yea subject to your countenance ; glad or 

sorry. 
As I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour, 
I ever contradicted your desire. 
Or made it not mine too ? Or which of your 

friends 
Have I not strove to love, although I knew 
He were mine enemy? what friend of mine 
That had to him deriv'd your anger, did I 
Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice 
He was from thence discharg'd ? Sir, call to 

mind 
That I have been your wife, in this obedience. 
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest 
With many children by you : If, in the course 
And process of this time, you can report 
And prove it too, against mine honour aught. 
My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty. 
Against your sacred person, in God's name. 
Turn me away ; and let the foul'st contempt 
Shut door upon me, and so give me up 
To the sharpest kind of justice. Please you, sir. 
The king, your father, was reputed for 
A prince most prudent, of an excellent 
And unmatch'd wit and judgment: Ferdin- 
and, 
My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one 
The wisest prince, that there had reign'd by 

many 
A year before : It is not to be question'd 
That they had gather'd a wise council to them 
Of every realm, that did debate this business. 
Who deem'd our marriage lawful ; Wherefore 

I humbly 
Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may 
Be by my friends in Spain advis'd; whose 

counsel 
27 



I will implore : if not, i'the name of God, 
Your pleasure be fultill'd ! 

William Shakspere. 



HOTSPUR'S DEATH. 

(From First Part "King Henry IV.," Act I., Scene 3.) 

TJJOTSPUR. O, Harry, thou has robb'd me 

B), of my youth : 

I better brook the loss of brittle life. 

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me ; 

They wound my thoughts, worse than thy 

sword my flesh — 
But thought's the slave of life, and life time's 

fool; 
And time, that takes survey of_ all the world, 
Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy. 
But that the earthy and cold hand of death 
Lies on my tongue : — No, Percy, thou art dust. 
And food for — [^Dies. 

Prince Henry. For worms, brave Percy: 

Fare thee well, great heart ! — 
lU-weav'd ambition, how much art thou 

shrunk ! 
When that this body did contain a spirit, 
A kingdom for it was too small a bound ; 
But now, two paces of the vilest earth 
Is room enough :— This earth, that bears thee 

dead. 
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. 
If thou wert sensible of courtesy, 
I should not make so dear a show of zeal : — 
But let my favours hide thy mangled face ; 
And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself 
For doing these fair rites of tenderness. 
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven! 
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave. 
But not remember'd in thy epitaph! — 

William Shakspere. 



AJ^J\rE HATHAWAY. 

(To tlie Idol of my Eye, and Delight of my Heart, Anne 
Hathaway.) 

WOULD ye be taught, ye feathered 
, throng. 
With love's sweet notes to grace your song. 
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, 
Listen to mine Anne Hathaway ! 
She hath a way to sing so clear, 
Phoebus might wondering stop to hear. 
To melt the sad, make blithe the gay. 
And nature charm, Anne hath a way ; 
She hath a way; 
Anne Hathaway, 
To breathe delight Annie hath a way. 



434 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



When envy's breath and rancorous tooth 

Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, 

And merit to distress betray, 

To soothe the heart Anne hath a way. 

She hath a way to chase despair, 

To heal all grief, to cure all care, 

Turn foulest night to fairest day ; 

Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way ; 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway, 
To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. 

Talk not of gems, the orient list, 
The diamond, topaz, amethyst, 
The emerald mild, the ruby gay; 
Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway ! 
She hath a way with her bright eye, 
Their various lustres to defy ; 
The Jewel she, and the foil they. 
So sweet to look, Anne hath a way. 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway, 
To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. 

But were it to my fancy given 
To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven ; 
For though a mortal made of clay. 
Angels must love Anne Hathaway. 
She hath a way so to control 



To rapture the imprisoned soul, 

And sweetest heaven on earth display, 

That to be heaven, Anne hath a way. 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway, 
To be heaven's self, Anne hath a way. 

Attributed to Shakspere. 



BEETHOVEJ^, 

IjNTO his listening ear the universe 
' Poured all of its harmonies divine, 
The roll of billows on the ocean shore, 

The whisper of the pine ; 
The roar of tempests through the oak's strong 
boughs, 
The dash and drip of rain ; 
The ring of laughter and the sigh of love, 
The moan of tearful pain. 

The God his aw^ful hand upon him laid, 

And lo ! no more he heard. 
As others hear, the voice of man or beast, 

Of insect or of bird ; 
But deep within the silence of his soul 

Each tone imprisoned lay, 
To utterance find in music that shall keep 

The willing world in sway. 

Mary H. Krout. 









POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



435 



n I'- 




•' The pavement stones resound, 
As he totters o'er the ground. 



THE LAST LEAF. 



SAW him once before 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound, 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 



They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning knife of time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

So forlorn. 
And he shakes his feeble head, 



That it seems as if he said ; 
" They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has press'd 

In their bloom ; 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My Grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 



436 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



Like a staff, 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 
I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here ; 
But the old three-cornered hat. 
And the breeches, — and all that, 

Are so queer ! 
And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



TO MARGARET HUSSEY. 
^ ERRY Margaret, 
^fw\ As midsummer flower. 
Gentle as falcon, 

Or hawk of the tower ; 
With solace and gladness. 
Much mirth, and no madness, 
All good and no badness; 
So joyously, 
So maidenly. 
So womanly, 
Her demeaning. 
In everything. 
Far, far passing 
That I can indite, 
Or sulRce to write. 
Of Merry Margaret, 

As midsummer flower. 
Gentle as falcon. 

Or hawk of the tower; 
As patient and as still. 
And as full of good will. 
As fair as Isiphil, 
Coliander, 
Sweet Pomander, 
Good Cassander ; 
Steadfast of thought, 
Well made, well wrought. 
Far may be sought, 
Ere you can find 
So courteous, so kind. 
As Merry Margaret, 

This midsummer flower. 
Gentle as falcon. 

Or hawk of the tower. 

John Skelton. 




POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



437 



CLEOPATRA. 

(From "Antony and Cleopatra," Act II., Scene 2. ) 

fHE barge she sat in, like a burnish'd 
throne, 
Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten 

gold; 
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that 
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars 

were silver ; 
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and 

made 
The water, which they beat, to follow faster, 
As amorous of their strokes. For her own 

person. 
It beggar'd all description : she did lie 
In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), 
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see 
The fancy out-work nature : on each side her, 
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cu- 
pids, 
With divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did 

seem 
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did 

cool. 
And what they undid, did. 
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her i'the eyes, 
And made their bends adornings : at the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft 

hands. 
That yarely frame the office. From the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
Her people out upon her ; and Antony, 
Entbron'd in the market-place, did sit alone, 
Whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy, 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
And made a gap in nature. 
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
Her infinite variety : Other women 
Cloy th' appetites they feed: but she makes 

hungry 
Where most she satisfies. 

William Shakspere. 



dickejys ijv camp. 

tBOVE the pines the moon was slowly 
drifting. 
The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
Their minarets of snow. 



The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor 
painted 
The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and 
fainted 
In the mad race for wealth. 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant 
treasure 
A hoarded volume drew, 
And cards were dropped from hands of list- 
less leisure, 
To hear the tale anew. 

And then, while round them shadows gath- 
ered faster 

And as the firelight fell, 
He read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Has writ of " Little NeU." 

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy ; for the reader 

Was youngest of them all ; 
But as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall. 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray. 
While the whole camp, with " Nell " on Eng- 
lish meadows. 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes, o'ertaken 

As by some spell divine, 
Their cares dropped from them like the 
needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

TiOst in that camp and wasted aU its fire ; 

And he who wrought that spell ? 
Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire. 

Ye have one tale to tell I 

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 

With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory 
That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and 
holly 

With laurel wreaths entwine. 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly. 

This spray of western pine ! 

(Fraxcis) Bret Harte. 




Geoffrey Chaucer. 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHAPACTEPS. 



EMILIE. 

(From the "Knight's Tale.'') 

fHUS passeth year by year, and day by day, 
Till it fell once on a morrow of May, 
That Emilie, that fairer was to seen 
Than is the lily upon her stalk green, 
And fresher than the May with floures new — 
For with the rose colour strove her hue, 
I n'ot which was the fairer of them two — 
Ere it was day, as it was her wont to do. 
She was arisen, and all already dight — 
For May will have no sluggardie a-night. 
The season pricketh every gentle heart. 
And maketh him out of his sleepe start, 
And saith: "Arise, and do thine observance!" 
This maketh Emilie have remembrance 
To do honour to May, and for to rise, 
Yclothed was she fresh for to devise. 
Her yellow hair was braided in a tress, 
Behind her back, a yard long, I guess ; 
And in her garden, as the sun uprist. 
She walked up and down, and as her list. 
She gathereth floures, party white and red. 
To make a sotil garland for her head ; 
And as an angel heavenly she sung ! 

Geoffkey Chaucer. 



A POET'S CREED. 

Y soul drinks in its future life 
)f@i Like some green forest thrice cut down, 
Whose shoots defy the axmen's strife. 
And skyward spread a greener crown. 

While sunshine gilds my aged head 
And bounteous earth supplies my food, 

The lamps of God their soft light shed 
And distant worlds are understood. 

Say not my soul is but a clod. 
Resultant of my body's powers ; 

She plumes her wings to fly to God, 
And will not rest outside His bowers. 

The Winter's snows are on my brow. 
But Summer suns more brightly glow. 

And violets, lilacs, roses now. 
Seem sweeter than long years ago. 

As I approach my earthly end. 

Much plainer can I hear afar. 
Immortal symphonies which blend. 

To welcome me from star to star. 

Though marvelous, it still is plain ; 
A fairy tale, yet history, 



Losing Earth, a Heaven we gain ; 
With death, win immortality. 

For fifty years my willing pen. 
In history, drama, and romance ; 

With satires, sonnets, or with men, 
Has flown, or danced its busy dance. 

All themes I tried ; and yet T know, 
Ten thousand times as much unsaid 

Remains in me ! It must be so. 
Though ages should not find me dead. 

When unto dust we turn once more, 
We can say, " One day's work is done;" 

We may not say, " Our work is o'er," 
For life will scarcely have begun. 

The tomb is not an endless night : 

It is a thoroughfare — a way 
That closes in a soft twilight. 

And opens in eternal day. 

Moved by the Love of God, I find 
That I must work as did Voltaire, 

Who loved the World and all mankind ; 
But God is Love ! Let none despair! 

Our work on Earth is just begun ; 

Our monuments will later rise. 
To bathe their summits in the sun, 

And shine in God's Eternal Skies ! 

Victor Hugo. 

(Row's Translation). 



(From 



SOJVG. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona, 



Act IV., Scene 2.) 



W'HO is Silvia? What is she, 
That all our swains commend her ? 
Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 

The heavens such grace did lend her. 
That she might admired be. 

Is she kind, as she is fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindness : 
Love doth to her eyes repair. 

To help him of his blindness ; 
And, being help'd, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia let us sing. 

That Silvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal thing, 

Upon the dull earth dwelling. 
To her let us garlands bring. 

William Shakspere. 



440 



rOEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



THE POET'S WIFE. 



(^HE was a phantom of delight 
® When tirst she glanced upon my 

sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn ; 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her, upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too — 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sw^eet ; 



A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food, 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and 
smiles. 



And now I see, with eye serene, 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveler between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 
To warn, to comfort, and command. 
And yet a Spirit, too, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 

William Wordsworth. 




:^MJ^- __%3Jjo- 



Jennie kissed me when we met, 
Jumping from the chair she sat in. 

RONBEATJ. 



("Jennie" was Mrs. Carlyle. Hunt was the bearer of a piece of good news to the then obscure and struggliug Scotch- 
man; the lady was unable to contain her joy, and jumping up, threw lier arms about the poet's neck and Ivissed him. 
The next morning she received the following lines with some flowers:) 

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 
Say that health and wealth have missed me, 

Say I'm growing old, but add, 
Jennie kissed me ! Leigh Hunt. 



WTEXNIE kissed me when we met, 
0/ Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
Time, you thief, who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in ; 



POEMS OF PERSONS AKD CHARACTERS. 



441 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

/l|ijY boat is on the shore, 
vKf And my bark is on the sea ; 
But before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for every fate ! 

Though the ocean roar around me. 
Yet it still shall bear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Wer't the last drop in the well. 
As I gasp'd upon the brink. 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I w ould drink. 

"With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 



JOHJS" HOWARD PAYJVE. 

ME wandered o'er the dreary earth. 
Forgotten and alone ; 
He who could teach Home's matchless worth 

Ne'er had one of his own. 
'Neath winter's cloud and summer's sun. 

Along the hilly road. 
He bore his great heart, and had none 

To help him with the load ; 
And wheresoever in his round 

He went with weary tread. 
His sweet pathetic song he found 

Had floated on ahead ! 

He heard the melodies it made 

Come pealing o'er and o'er. 
From royal music bands that played 

Before the palace door ; 
He heard its gentle tones of love 

From many a cottage creep. 
When tender crooning mothers strove 

To sing their babes to sleep ; 
And wheresoe'er true love had birth 

This thrilling song had flown. 
But he who taught Home's matchless worth 

Had no home of his own. 



The banishment was overlong, 

But it will soon be past ; 
The man who wrote Home's sweetest song 

Shall have a home at last ! 
And he shall rest where laurels wave 

And fragrant grasses twine ; 
His sweetly kept and honored grave 

Shall be a sacred shrine, 
And pilgrims with glad eyes grown dim 

"Will fondly bend above 
The man who sung the triumph hymn 

Of earth's divinest love. 

"Will H. Carleton. 



JOHJY HOWARD PAYME. 

(Read at the unveiling of the bust at Prospect Park, 
Brooklyn.) 

fO him who sang of " Home, sweet home," 
In strains so sweet, the simple lay 
Has thrilled a million hearts, we come 

A nation's grateful debt to pay. 
Yet, not for him the bust we raise ; 

Ah, no! can lifeless lips prolong 
Fame's trumpet voice ? The poet's praise 
Lives in the music of his song I 

The noble dead we fondly seek 

To honor with applauding breath ; 
Unheeded fall the words we speak. 

Upon " the dull, cold ear of death." 
Yet, not in vain the spoken word ; 

Nor vain the monument we raise ; 
With quicker throbs our hearts are stirred 

To catch the nobleness we praise ! 

Columbia's sons — we share his fame ; 

'Tis for ourselves the bust we rear. 
That they who mark the graven name 

May know that name to us is dear ; 
Dear as the home the exile sees — 

The fairest spot beneath the sky — 
Where, first — upon a mother's knees — ^ 

He slept, and where he yearns to die. 

But not alone the lyric fire 

Was his, the Drama's muse can tell; 
His genius could a Kean inspire ; 

A Kemble owned his magic spell ; 
A Kean, to "Brutus' "self so true 

(As true to Art and Nature's laws). 
He seemed the man the poet drew, 

And shared witli him the town's applause. 

Kind hearts and brave with truth severe 
He drew, unconscious, from his own ; 



44^ 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



O nature rare ! But pilgrims here 
Will oft'nest say, in pensive tone, 

With reverend face and lifted hand, 
" 'Twas he — by Fortune forced to roam- 



Who, homeless in a foreign land, 
So sweetly sang the joys of home !" 

John Godfrey Saxe. 







Look at me with thy lar<;e brown eyes, 
Philip, my King!" 



PHILIP, MY KIKO. 

("Philip" was Philip Bourke Marstou, who afterwards achieved distinction as a poet.) 



T^' OOK at me with thy large brown eyes, 

ll£ Philip, my King ! 

For round thee the purple shadow lies 

Of babyhood's regal dignities. 

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand. 

With love's invisible scepter laden ; 
I am thine Esther to command, 

Till thou Shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, 
Philip, my King I 

Oh, the day when thou goest a- wooing, 
Philip, my King ! 



When those beautiful lips 'gin suing; 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing. 
Thou dost enter, love crowned, and there 

Sittest all glorified ! Rule kindly, 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; 

For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my King ! 

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my King! 
Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now. 
That may rise like a giant, and make men bow 



POEMS OF PEHSOlsrS AND CHARACTERS. 



443 



As to one God-throned amidst his peers. 

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer, 
Let me behold thee in coming years ! 

Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my King ! 

A wreath, not of gold, but of palm. Some day, 

Philip, my King, 
Thou, too, must tread, as we tread, a way 
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray ; 
Rebels within thee, and foes without 

Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glor- 
ious. 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, 
As thou sittest at the feet of God, victori- 
ous, 
"Philip, the King!" 

Dm.ui MuLocK Craik. 




Philip Bourke Marston. 



''PHILIP, MY KIJ{G:' 

(To Philip Bourke Marston.) 

fHEY tell US thou art he, about whose 
brow, 
In cradle years, a poet twined the lays 



Through w^hich she glorified, in poet's phrase, 
Those splendid eyes that forced her to avow 
Heart-fealty to thee her liege, and bow 
Before thy regal looks, with regal praise 
Of more enduring freshness than the bays 
Which blatant crowds bind for their heroes 
now. 

Had she prevision that above those eyes 
God meant to press his hand, the better 

To cage the lark-like spirit, lest it soar 

So deep into the blue inviolate skies. 
That earthly listeners, standing far below, 

Should fail to catch the ethereal music more! 
Margaret J. Prestox. 



BUBJVS. 

(Extract. ) 

fMHERE have been loftier themes than his, 
"P And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, 
And lays lit up with poesy's 
Purer and holier fires : 
• 
Yet read the names that know not death ; 
Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; 
And few have won a greener wreath 
Than that which binds his hair. 

His is that language of the heart 

In which the answering heart would speak, 
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 

Or the smile light the cheek ; 

And his that music, to whose tone 
The common pulse of man keeps time. 

In cot or castle's mirth or moan, 
In cold or sunny clime. 

Through care, and pain, and want, and woe, 
With wounds that only death could heal, 

Tortures, the poor alone can know, 
The proud alone can feel ; 

He kept his honesty and truth, 
His independent tongue and pen. 

And moved, in manhood as in youth. 
Pride of his fellow-men. 

Praise to the bard ! his words are driven. 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sow^n, 

Where'er beneath the sky of heaven, 
The birds of fame have flown. 



444 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, 
Shrines to no code or creed confined! 

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
The Meccas of the mind. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



ROBERT RUR.YS. 

'HAT bird, in beauty, flight, or song, 
Can with the bard compare 
Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong 
As ever child of air ; 

His plume, his note, his form could Burns 
For whim or pleasure change ; 

He was not one, but all by turns, 
With transmigration strange. 

The black bird, oracle of spring, 

When flowed his moral lay ; 
The swallow wheeling on the w^ing, 

Capriciously, at play. 

The humming-bird, from bloom to bloom. 

Inhaling heavenly balm ; 
The raven, in the tempest's gloom ; 

The halcyon, in the calm. 

In " auld kirk AUoway," the owl ; 

At witching time of night ; 
By " Bonnie Doon," the earliest fowl 

That caroled to the light ; 

He was the wren amidst the grove. 

When in his homely vein ; 
At Bannockburn the bird of Jove, 

With thunder in his train ; 

The wood-lark in his mournful hours ; 

The goldfinch in his mirth ; 
The thrush, a spendthrift of his powers, 

Enriching heaven and earth ; 

The swan, in majesty and grace, 

Contemplative and still; 
But roused, no falcon in the chase 

Could like his satire kill. 

The linnet, in simplicity; 

In tenderness the dove ; 
And more than all beside was he 

The nightingale in love. 

Oh, had he never stooped to shame, 

Not lent a charm to vice. 
How had Devotion loved to name 

That bird-of-paradise ! 



Peace to the dead ! In Scotia's choir 
Of minstrels great and small, 

He sprang from his spontaneous fire, 
The phoenix of them all! 

James Montgomery. 




James Montgomery. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 

T is a place where poets crowned may feel 
the heart's decaying. 

It is a place where happy saints may weep 
amid their praying ; 

Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as sil- 
ence languish ! 

Earth surely now may give her calm to whom 
she gave her anguish. 

O poets! from a maniac's tongue was poured 

the deathless singing ! 
O Christians! at your cross of hope a hopeless 

hand was clinging ! 
O men ! this man in brotherhood your weary 

paths beguiling. 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and 

died while ye were smiling I 

And now, what time ye all may read through 

brimming tears the story, 
How discord on the music fell, and darkness 

on the glory. 
And how, when one by one, sweet sounds and 

wandering lights departed, 



i 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



445 



He wore no less a loving face because so brok- 
en-hearted. 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high 
vocation, 

And bow the meekest Christian down in meek- 
er adoration ; 

Nor ever shall he be in praise by wise or good 
forsaken ; 

Named softly as the household name of one 
whom God hath taken. 

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to 

think upon him, 
With meekness that is gratefulness to God 

whose heaven hath won him, 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His 

own love to blind him, 
But gently led the blind along where breath 

and bird could find him ; 

And wrought within his shattered brain such 
quick poetic senses 

As hills have language for, and stars harmon- 
ious influences : 

The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his 
within its number. 

And silent shadows from the trees refreshed 
him like a slumber. 

While timid hares were drawn from woods to 
share his home caresses, 

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan ten- 
dernesses ; 

The very world, by God's constraint, from 
falsehood's ways removing. 

Its women and its men became, beside him 
true and loving. 

But though, in blindness, he remained uncon- 
scious of that guiding. 

And things provided came without the sweet 
sense of providing, 

He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy- 
desolated. 

Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God 
created. 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother 
while she blesses, 

And drops upon his burning brow the cool- 
ness of her kisses. 

That turns his fevered eyes around: "My 
mother? where's my mother? " 

As if such tender words and deeds could come 
from any other! 



The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees 
her bending o'er him. 

Her face all pale from watchful love, the un- 
wearied love she bore him : 

Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's 
long fever gave him. 

Beneath those deep pathetic eyes, that closed 
in death to save him ! 

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth can 
image that awaking, 

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of 
seraphs, round him breaking. 

Or felt the new, immortal throb of soul from 
body parted. 

But felt those eyes alone, and knew " My Sav- 
iour: not deserted !" 

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the 

cross in darkness rested 
Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love was 

manifested ? 
What frantic hands outstretched have e'er th' 

atoning drops averted, 
What tears have washed them from the soul, 

that one should be deserted ? 

Deserted ! God could separate from his own 
essence rather. 

And Adam's sins have swept between the 
righteous son and Father ; 

Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his uni- 
verse hath shaken ; 

It went up, single, echoless : " My God, I am 
forsaken !" 

It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost 
creation, 

That, of the lost, no son should use those 
words of desolation, 

That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, 
should mar not hope's fruition. 

And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rap- 
ture in a vision ! 

ELIZ.43ETH BaERETT BrOWNING. 



AT TEE GRAVE OF BURMS. 

(Extract.) 

^00 frail to keep the lofty vow 
That must have followed when his brow 
Was wreathed—" The Vision" tells us how— 

With holly spray, 

He faltered, drifted to and fro. 

And passed away. 




^/^^~?-?-A-i,^-7^ 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



447 



Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight ; 
Think rather of those moments bright 
When to the consciousness of right 

His course was true, 
When wisdom prospered in his sight 

And virtue grew. 

Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; 
The rueful conflict, the heart riven 

With vain endeavour. 
And memory of earth's bitter leaven 

Eflaced forever. 

But why to him confine the prayer, 

When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 

On the frail heart the purest share 

With all that live ?— 
The best of what we do and are. 

Just God, forgive ! 

William Wordsworth. 



That rose's fragrance is forever fled 

For us, dear friend— but not the Poet's lay. 
He is the rose, deathless among the dead, 
Whose perfume lives to-day. 
Christopher Pearse Cranch. 



AT THE GRAVE OF KEATS, 

T^ ONG, long ago, in the sweet Roman 
M Spring, 
Through the bright morning air, we slowly 
strolled, 
And in the blue heaven heard the skylark sing 
Above the ruins old — 

Beyond the Forum's crumbling grass-grown 
piles. 
Through high-walled lanes o'erhung with 
blossoms white 
That opened on the far Campagna's miles 
Of verdure and of light ; 

Till by the grave of Keats we stood, and 

found 

A rose— a single ro§e left blooming there, 

Making more sacred still that hallowed ground 

And that enchanted air. 

A single rose, whose fading petals drooped, 
^ And seemed to wait for us to gather them. 
So, kneeling on the humble mound, we stooped 
And plucked it from its stem. 

One rose, and nothing more. We shared its 
leaves 
Between us, as we shared the thoughts of one 
Called from the field before his unripe sheaves 
Could feel the harvest sun. 




Fitz-Greene Halleck, 



OjY the death of JOSEPH ROD' 

majY drake. 

tREEI^ be the turf above thee. 
Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 
Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep. 
And long where thou art lying, 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 

Like thine, are laid in earth. 
There should a wreath be woven 

To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow, 

To clasp thy hand in mine. 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 

Whose weal and woe were thine ; 

It should be mine to braid it 
Around thy faded brow, 



448 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



But Pve in vain essayed it, 
And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free; 



The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



35?'^i^^5o^ L^iTO: 



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POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



44\) 



ELIZABETH. 

(From ''King Henry VIII.," ActV., Scene 4.) 

r^HIS royal infant (Heaven still move about 
^F herl), 

Though in her cradle, yet now promises 
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, 
Which time shall bring to ripeness : She shall 

be 
(But few now living can behold that goodness), 
A pattern to all princes living with her, 
And all that shall succeed : Sheba was never 
More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue, 
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces. 
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, 
With all the virtues that attend the good. 
Shall still be doubled on her : truth shall nurse 

her, 
Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her : 
She shall be lov'd, and fear'd : Her own shall 

bless her; 
Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, 
And hang their heads with sorrow: Good 

grows with her : 
In her days, every man shall eat in safety 
Under his owm vine, what he plants ; and sing 
The merry songs of peace to all his neigh- 
bours : 



God shall be truly known; and those about 
her 

From her shall read the perfect ways of hon- 
our. 

And by those claim their greatness, not by 
blood. 

William Shakspere. 



OjY QTJEEK ELIZABETH. 

(A governess at Wilton House, happening to read the 
" Arcadia," discovered between two of tlie leaves, folded 
in paper as yellow from age as the printed pages between 
which it reposed, alockof hair, and on the envelope in- 
closing the lock was written in Sir Philip Sidney's own 
hand an inscription purporting that the hair was that 
of her gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. Pinned to this 
was another paper, on whicli was written the following 
tribute to the royal coquette:) 

TJTER inward worth all outward show tran- 
JP[ scends. 

Envy her merits with regret commends ; 
Like sparkling gems her virtues draw the 

sight, 
And in her conduct she is always bright. 
When she imparts her thoughts, her words 

have force. 
And sense and wisdom flow in sweet discourse. 
Sir Philip Sidney. 



CHARACTER OF QUE EM ELIZABETH. 

(From "The History of England.") 

'HERE are few great personages in history who have been more exposed to the calumny 
of enemies and the adulation of friends than Queen Elizabeth ; and yet there is scarcely 
any whose reputation has been more certainly determined by the unanimous consent 

*f of posterity. The unusual length of her administration, and the strong features of her 
character, were able to overcome all prejudices ; and obliging her detractors to abate much 
of their invectives, and her admirers somewhat of their panegyrics, have at last, in spite of 
political factions, and what is more, of religious animosities, produced a uniform judgment 
with regard to her conduct. Her vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity, her penetration, 
vigilance and address, are allowed to merit the highest praises, and appear not to have been 
surpassed by any person that ever filled a throne : a conduct less rigorous, less imperious, 
more sincere, more indulgent to her people, would have been requisite to form a perfect char- 
acter. By the force of her mind she controlled all her more active and stronger qualities and 
prevented them from running into excess ; her heroism was exempt from temerity, her fru- 
gality from avarice, her friendship from partiality, her active temper from turbulency and a 
vain ambition ; she guarded not herself with equal care or equal success from lesser infirm- 
ities—the rivalship of beauty, the desire of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies of 
anger. 

Her singular talents for government were founded equally on her temper and on her capac 
ity. Endowed with a great command over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascend- 
ant over her people ; and while she merited all their esteem by her real virtues, she also en- 
gaged their affections by her pretended ones. Few sovereigns of England succeeded to the 
28 



450 POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 

throne in more difficult circumstances; and none ever conducted the government with 
such uniform success and felicity. Though unacquainted with the practice of toleration — the 
true secret for managing religious factions — she preserved her people, by her superior pru- 
dence, from those confusions in which theological controversy had involved all the neighbor- 
ing nations : and though her enemies were the most powerful princes of Europe, the most ac- 
tive, the most enterprising, the least scrupulous, she was able by her vigour to made deep 
impressions on their states ; her own greatness meanwhile remained untouched and un- 
impaired. 

The wase ministers and brave warriors who flourished under her reign, share the praise of 
her success ; but instead of lessening the praise due to her, they make great addition to it. 
They owed, all of them, their advancement to her choice ; they were supported by her con- 
stancy, and with all their abilities they were never able to acquire any undue ascendant over 
her. In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remained equally mistress ; the force of 
the tender passions was great over her, but the force of her mind was still superior; and the 
combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to display the firmness of her resolution, 
and the loftiness of her ambitious sentiments. 

The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the prejudices both of faction and 
bigotry, yet lies still exposed to another prejudice, w^hich is more durable because more nat- 
ural, and which, according to the different views in which we survey her, is capable either of 
exalting beyond measure or diminishing the lustre of her character. This prejudice is founded 
on the consideration of her sex. When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to be 
struck with the highest admiration of her great qualities and extensive capacity ; but Ave are 
also apt to require some more softness of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some of 
those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. But the true method of estima- 
ting her merit is to lay aside all these considerations, and consider her merely as a rational be- 
ing placed in authority, and intrusted with the government of mankind. We may find it diffi- 
cult to reconcile our fancy to her as a wife or a mistress ; but her qualities as a sovereign, 
though with some considerable exceptions, are the object of undisputed applause and appro- 
bation. 

David Hume. 
o 

CHARACTER OF MARY QUEE.Y OF SCOTS. 

'O all the charms of beauty and the utmost elegance of external form, she added 
those accomplishments which render their impression irresistible. Polite, aff'able, in- 
sinuating, sprightly, and capable of speaking and of writing with equal ease and dig- 
nity. Sudden, however, and violent in all her attachments, because her heart was 
warm and unsuspicious. Impatient of contradiction, because she had been accustomed from 
her infancy to be treated as a queen. No stranger, on some occasions, to dissimulation, which 
in that perfidious court where she. received her education, Avas reckoned among the necessary 
arts of government. Not insensible of flattery, or unconcious of that pleasure Avith which 
almost every Avoman beholds the influence of her OAvn beauty. Formed Avith the qualities 
which Ave love, not Avith the talents that we admire, she Avas an agreeable Avoman rather than 
an illustrious queen. The vivacity of her spirit, not sufficiently tempered Avith sound judgment, 
and the warmth ofher heart, which Avas not at all times under the restraint of discretion, betrayed 
her both into errors and into crimes. To say that she Avas always unfortunate Avill not ac- 
count for that long and almost uninterrupted succession of calamities Avhich befell her: we 
must likewise add that she Avas often imprudent. Her passion for Darnley Avas rash, youth- 
ful and excessive. And though the sudden transition to the opposite extreme was the natur- 
al effect of her ill-requited love, and of his ingratitude, insolence, and brutality, yet neither 



I 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 451 

these nor Bothwell's artful address and important services can justify her attachment to that 
nobleman. Even the manners of the age, licentious as they were, are no apology for this un- 
happy passion ; nor can they Induce us to look on that tragical and infamous scene which 
followed upon it with less abhorrence. Humanity will draw a veil over this part of her char- 
acter which it cannot approve, and, may, perhaps, prompt some to impute her actions to her 
situation more than to her dispositions, and to lament the unhappiness of the former rather 
than accuse the perverseness of the latter. Mary's sufferings exceed, both in degree and in du- 
ration, those tragical distresses which fancy has feigned to excite sorrow and commiseration ; 
and while we survive them, we are apt altogether to forget their frailties ; we think of her 
faults with less indignation, and approve of our tears as if they were shed for a person who 
had attained much nearer to pure virtue. 

With regard to the queen's person, a circumstance not to be omitted in writing the history 
of a female reign, all contemporary authors agree in ascribing to Mary the utmost beauty of 
countenance and elegance of shape of which the human form is capable. Her hair was black, 
though according to the fashion of that age she frequently wore borrowed locks, and of differ- 
ent colours. Her eyes were a dark gray, her complexion was exquisitely fine, and her hands 
and arms remarkably delicate, both as to shape and colour. Her stature was of a height that 
rose to the majestic. She danced, she walked, and rode with equal grace. Her taste for 
music was just, and she both sung and played upon the lute with uncommon skill. Towards 
the end of her life she began to grow fat, and her long confinement, and the coldness of the 
houses in which she had been imprisoned, brought on a rheumatism, which deprived her of 
the use of her limbs. " No man," says Brantome, " ever beheld her person without admiration 
and love, or will read her history without sorrow." 

William Robertson. 
o 

THE FATHER OF HISTORY. 

(From the Essay on "Historj'.'") 

T may be laid down as a general rule, though subject to considerable qualifications and 
exceptions, that history begins in novel and ends in essay. Of the romantic historians 
Herodotus is the earliest and best. His animation, his simple-hearted tenderness; his 
wonderful talent for description and dialogue, and the pure sweet flow of his language, 
place him at the head of narrators. He reminds us of a delightful child. There is a grace be- 
yond the reach of affectation in his awkwardness, a malice in his innocence, an intelligence in 
his nonsense, an insinuating eloquence in his lisp. We know no writer who makes such inter- 
est for himself and his book in the heart of the reader. At the distance of three-and-twenty 
centuries, we feel for him the same sort of pitying fondness which Fontaine and Gay are sup- 
posed to have inspired in society. He has written an incomparable book. He has written 
something better perhaps than the best history ; but he has not written a good history ; he is, 
from the first to the last chapter, an inventor. We do not here refer to those gross fictions 
with which he has been reproached by the critics of later times. We speak of that coloring 
which is equally diffused over his whole narrative, and which perpetually leaves the most sa- 
gacious reader in doubt what to reject and what to receive. The most authentic parts of his 
work bear the same relation to his wildest legends which Henry V. bears to the Tempest. 
There was an expedition undertaken by Xerxes against Greece ; and there was an invasion 
of France. There was a battle at Plataea ; and there was a battle at Agincourt. Cambridge 
and Exeter, the Constable and the Dauphin, were persons as real as Demaratus and Pausani- 
as. The harangue of the Archbishop on the Salic Law, and the Book of Numbers, differs 
much less from the orations which have in all ages proceeded from the right reverend bench 
thaij the speeches of Mardonius and Artabanus differ from those which were delivered at the 



452 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



council-board of Susa. Shakspere gives us enumerations of armies, and returns of killed and 
wounded, which are not, we suspect, much less accurate than those of Herodotus. There are 
passages in Herodotus nearly as long as acts of Shakspere in which everything is told dram- 
atically, and in which the narrative serves only the place of stage-directions. It is possible, 
no doubt, that the substance of some real conversations may have been repeated to the his- 
torian. But events, which, if they ever happened, happened in ages and nations so remote 
that the particulars could never have been known to him, are related with the greatest min- 
uteness of detail. We have all that Candaules said to Gyges, and all that passed between As- 
tyages and Harpagus. We are, therefore, unable to judge whether, in the account which he 
gives of transactions respecting which he might possibly have been well informed, we can trust 
to anything beyond the naked outline ; whether, for example, the answer of Gelon to the am- 
bassadors of the Grecian confederacy, or the expressions which passed between Aristides and 
Themistocles at their famous interview, have been correctly transmitted to us. The great 
events are, no doubt, faithfully related; probably, are many of the slighter circumstances ; 
but which of them it is impossible to ascertain. The fictions are so much like the facts, 
and the facts so much like the fictions, that, with respect to many interesting particulars, 
our belief is neither given nor withheld, but remains in an uneasy and interminable state 
of abeyance. We know that there is truth, but we cannot decide exactly where it lies. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 




You meaner beauties of the night, 
That poorly satisfy our eyes." 



TO HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEJV OF BOHEMIA. 

(The Pkincess Elizabeth, Daughter of James I., of England.) 



'OU meaner beauties of the night. 
That poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your light. 
You common people of the skies. 
What are you when the sun shall rise ? 



You curious chanters of the wood. 
That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your voices understood 
By your weak accents, what's your praise 
When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



453 



You violets that first appear, 
By your pure purple mantles known, 

Like the proud virgins of the year. 
As if the spring were all your own, 
What are you when the rose is blown ? 

So when my mistress shall be seen 
In form and beauty of her mind. 

By virtue first, then choice, a queen. 
Tell me if she were not designed 
TJie eclipse and glory of her kind ? 

Sir Henhy Wotton. 



TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHEB- 
LAJ^D. 

§NCE more, my harp, once more ! although 
1 thought 
Never to wake thy silent strings again, 
A wandering dream thy gentle chords have 
wrought, 
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt 
in pain. 
Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough, 
Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief 
below. 

And unto thee, the beautiful and pure, 
Whose lot is cast amid that busy world 

Where only sluggish dullness dwells secure. 
And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furled; 

To thee, whose friendship kept its equal truth 

Through the most dreary hour of my embit- 
tered youth, 

I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard. 

In days when poverty was twin with song, 
Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starred. 
Cheered by some castle's chief, and harbor- 
ed long, 
Not Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, 
Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed 
of praise. 

For easy are the alms the rich man spares 
To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent ; 

But thougav'stme, what woman seldom dares. 
Belief; in spite of many a cold dissent, 

When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart 

From those whose bounded power hath 
wrung, not crushed, my heart. 

Thou, then, when cowards lied away my 
name. 
And scoffed to see me feebly stem the tide, 



When some were kind on whom I had no 

claim. 
And some forsook on whom my love relied, 
And some, who might have battled for my 

sake, 
Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world 

would take. 

Thou gav'st me what the poor do give the 
poor; 
Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears; 
The loved, the near of kin could do no more, 
Who changed not with the gloom of vary- 
ing years 
But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, 
And blunted Slander's dart with their indig- 
nant scorn. 

For they who credit crime are they who feel 
Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin ; 
Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts 
that steal 
O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win ; 
And tales of broken truth are still believed 
Most readily by those who have themselves 
deceived. 

But like a white swan down a troubled stream. 
Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to 
fling 
Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam. 
And mar the freshness of her snowy wing, 
So thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride. 
Along the world's dark waves in purity dost 
glide. 

Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made 
To crimson with a faint, false-hearted 
shame ; 
Thou didst not shrink, of bitter tongues afraid. 
Who hunt in packs the objects of their 
blame ; 
To thee the sad denial still held true, 
For from thine own good thoughts thy heart 
its mercy drew. 

And though my faint and tributary rhymes 
Add nothing to the glory of thy day. 

Yet every poet hopes that after-times 
Shall set some value on his votive lay ; 

And I would fain one gentle deed record. 

Among the many such with which thy life is 
stored. 

So when these lines, made in a mournful hour, 
Are idly opened to the stranger's eye, 



454 POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 

A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power, And they who never saw thy lovely face 
Shall be the first to wander floating by ; Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace. 

Caroline E. S. Norton. 



MILTOK, BAKTE, AJfD MSCEYLUS. 

(From the Essay on "Milton.") 

POETRY which relates to the beings of another world ought to be at once mysterious 
and picturesque. That of Milton is so. That of Dante is picturesque Indeed beyond 
any that was ever written. Its effect approaches to that produced by the pencil or the 
chisel. But it is picturesque to the exclusion of all mystery. This is a fault on the 
right side, a fault inseparable from the plan of Dante's poem, which, as we have already ob- 
served, rendered utmost accuracy of description necessary. Still it is a fault. The super- 
natural agents excite an interest ; but it is not the interest which is proper to supernatural 
agents. We feel that we could talk to the ghosts and daemons without any emotion of un- 
earthly awe. "We could, like Don Juan, ask them to supper, and eat heartily in their com- 
pany. Dante's angels are good men with wings. His devils are spiteful ugly executioners. His 
dead men are merely living men in strange situations. The scene that passes between the 
poet and Farinata is justly celebrated. Still, Farinata in the burning tomb is exactly what 
Farinata would have been at an auto dafe. Nothing can be more touching than the first in- 
terview of Dante and Beatrice. Yet what is it, but a lovely woman chiding, with sweet aus- 
tere composure, the lover for whose affection she is grateful, but whose vice she reprobates? 
The feelings which give the passage its charm would suit the streets of Florence as well as 
the summit of the Mount of Purgatory. 

The spirits of Milton are unlike those of almost all other writers. His fiends, in particu- 
lar, are wonderful creations. They are not metaphysical abstractions. They are not wicked 
men. They are not ugly beasts. They have no horns, no tails, none of the "fee-faw-fum" of 
Tasso and Klopstock. They have just enough in common with human nature to be intelligible 
to human beings. Their characters are, like their forms, marked by a certain dim resemblance 
to those of men, but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions, and veiled in mj^sterious gloom. 

Perhaps the gods and daemons of ^schylus may best bear a comparison with the angels 
and devils of Milton. The style of the Athenian had, as we remarked, something of an ori- 
ental character; and the same peculiarity may be traced in his mythology. It has nothing of 
the amenity and elegance which we generally find in the superstitions of Greece. All is 
rugged, barbaric, and colossal. The legends of ^schylus seem to harmonize less with the 
fragrant groves and graceful porticoes in which his countrymen paid their vows to the God 
of Light and the Goddess of Desire, than with those huge and grotesque labyrinths of eternal 
granite in which Egypt enshrined her mystic Osiris, or in which Hindostan still bows down to 
her seven-headed idols. His favorite gods are those of the elder generation, the sons of heav- 
en and earth (compared with whom Jupiter himself was a stripling and an upstart), the gi- 
gantic Titans, and the inexorable furies. Foremost among his creations of this class stands 
Prometheus, half fiend, half redeemer, the friend of man, the sullen and implacable enemy 
of heaven. Prometheus bears undoubtedly a considerable resemblance to the Satan of Mil- 
ton. In both we find the same impatience of control, the same ferocity, the same uncon- 
querable pride. In both characters also are mingled, though in very different proportions, 
some kind and generous feeling. Prometheus, however, is hardly superhuman enough. He 
talks too much of his chains and his uneasy posture ; he is rather too much depressed and 
agitated. His resolutions seems to depend on the knowledge which he possesses that the fate 
of his torturer is in his hands, and that the hour of his release will surely come. But Satan is 



1>0EMS OJ^ PERSO:&?S AKD OHARACTEES. 465 

a creature of another sphere. The might of his intellectual nature is victorious over the ex- 
tremity of pain. Amidst agonies which cannot be conceived without horror, he deliberates, 
resolves, and even exults. Against the sword of Michael, against the thunder of Jehovah, 
against the flaming lake, and the marl burning with solid fire, against the prospect of an eter- 
nity of unintermitted misery, his spirit bears up unbroken, resting on its own innate ener- 
gies, requiring no support from anything external, nor even from hope itself. 

To return for a moment to the parallel which we have been attempting to draw between 
Milton and Dante, we would add, that the poetry of these great men has in a considerable de- 
gree taken its character from their moral qualities. They are not egotists. They rarely ob- 
trude their idiosyncrasies upon their readers. They have nothing in common with those 
modern beggars for fame, who extort a pittance from the compassion of the inexperienced by 
exposing the nakedness and sores of their minds. Yet it would be difficult to name two 
writers, whose works have been more completely, though undesignedly, colored by their per- 
sonal feelings. 

The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished by loftiness of spirit; that of Dante 
by intensity of feeling. In every line of the Divine Comedy we discern the asperity which is 
produced by pride struggling with misery. There is perhaps no work in the world so deeply 
and uniformly sorrowful. The melancholy of Dante was no fantastic caprice. It was not, as 
far as at this distance of time can be judged, the effect of external circumstances. It was from 
within. Neither love, nor glory, neither the conflicts of earth nor the hope of heaven could 
dispel it. It turned every consolation and every pleasure into its own nature. It resembled 
that noxious Sardinian soil of which the intense bitterness is said to have been perceptible 
even in its honey. His mind was, in the noble language of the Hebrew poet, '" a land of dark- 
ness, as darkness itself, and where the light was as darkness." The gloom of his characters 
discolors all the passions of men, and all the face of nature, and tinges with its own livid hue 
the flow^ers of Paradise and the glories of the eternal throne. All the portraits of him are 
singularly characteristic. No person can look upon the features, noble even to ruggedness, 
the dark furrows, of the cheek, the haggard and woeful stare of the eye, the sullen and con- 
temptuous curve of the lip, and doubt that they belong to a man too proud and sensitive to 
be happy. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay, 
o 

ZIMBL 

CGeorge Villiers, Duke of Buckingliam.) 

N the first rank of these did Zimri stand ; That every man with him was god or devil ; 

A man so various, that he seemed to be In squandering wealth was his peculiar art : 

Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 

Stiff" in opinions, always in the wrong; Beggared by fools, whom still he found too 

Was everything by starts, and nothing long ; late. 

But in the course of one revolving moon, He had his jest, and they had his estate. 

Was chemist, fiddler, statesman and buffoon, He laughed himself from court, then found re- 
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drink- lief 

ing. In forming parties, but could ne'er be chief. 

Besides ten thousand freaks that died in think- 
ing, •x- * * * * 

Blest madman, who could every hour employ 

With something new to wish or to enjoy: Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft. 

Railing and praising were his usual themes. He left no faction but of that was left. 

And both, to show his judgment, in extremes; (From ''Absalom and Achitophel.") 

So over-violent or over-civil, John Dryden. 




456 



POEMS OF PEBSOKS AND CHARACTERS. 



457 



AJ^TOJVY'S ORATIOJV. 

(From "Julius Caesar," Act III., Scene 2.) 

^NTONY. Friends, Romans, countrymen, 

^Jm. lend me your ears ; 

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 

The evil that men do, lives after them ; 

The good is oft interred with their bones ; 

So let it be with Caesar, The noble Brutus 

Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious ; 

If it were so, it was a grievous fault ; 

And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. 

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, 

(For Brutus is an honourable man. 

So are they all, all honourable men) ; 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me ; 

But Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honourable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: 

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath 
wept ; 

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff; 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honourable man. 

You all did see, that on the Lupercal, 

I thrice presented him a kingly crown. 

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this am- 
bition ? 

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 

And, sure, he Is an honourable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke. 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once, not without cause ; 

What cause withholds you then to mourn for 
him? 

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts. 

And men have lost their reason ! Bear with 
me; 

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 

And I must pause till it come back to me. 



But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 
Have stood against the world: now lies he 

there,* 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

masters ! if I were dispos'd to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who, you all know, are honourable men : 

I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you. 
Than I will wrong such honourable men. 



But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar; 
I found it in his closet ; 'tis his will : 
Let but the commons hear this testament 
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read), 
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's 

wounds, 
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy. 
Unto their issue. 



If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle : I remember 
The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent : 
That day he overcame the Nervii : 
Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger 

through ; 
See, what a rent the envious Casca made I 
Through this, the well beloved Brutus stab- 

b'd; 
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Caesar foUow'd it ; 
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd 
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd or no ; 
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : 
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd 

him! 
This was the most unkindest cut of all : 
For Avhen the noble Caesar saw him stab. 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, 
Quite vanquish'd him ; then burst his mighty 

heart ; 
And, in his mantle muffling up his face. 
Even at the base of Pompey's statue. 
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar 

fell. 
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down. 
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 
O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel 
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. 
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but be- 
hold 
Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you 

here. 
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with trait- 
ors. 
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir 

you up. 
To such a a sudden flood of mutiny. 
They, that have done this deed, are honour- 
able; 



458 



t*OEMS OF MRSOi^S AND CHAilACTEliS. 



What private griefs they have, alas, 1 know 

not, 
That made them do it; they are wise and hon- 
ourable, 
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; 
I am no orator, as Brutus is; 
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 
That love my friend: and that they know full 

well 
That gave me public leave to speak of him. 
For I have neither wit nor words, nor worth. 
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of 

speech. 
To stir men's blood ; I only speak right on ; 
I tell you that, which you yourselves do 

know; 
Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor 

dumb mouths. 
And bid them speak for me : But were I 

Brutus 
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 

William Shakspere. 



Cry Havoc and let slip the dogs of waf^ 
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth 
With carrion men, groaning for burial. 

William Shakspere. 



AMTOKY TO CESAR'S BODY. 

(From " Julius Caesar," Act III., Scene 1.) 

tNTOiS'Y. O, pardon me, thou piece of 
bleeding earth. 
That I am meek and gentle with these butch- 
ers! 
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man, 
That ever lived in the tide of times. 
Wo to the hand that shed this costly blood! 
Over thy woitnds now do I prophesy, — 
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby 

lips, 
To beg the voice and utterance of my 

tongue ; — 
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ; 
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife. 
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy : 
Blood and destruction shall be so in use, 
And dreadful objects so familiar. 
That mothers shall but smile, when they be- 
hold 
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war; 
All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds; 
And, Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge. 
With Ate by his side, come hot from hell. 
Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, 



WILLIAM WALKER, 

(Having accompanied the filibuster "Walker to Nicarag- 
ua, the poet thus describes the chieftain and the course 
of the ill-fated expedition.) 

(Extracts.) 

J if PIERCIN^G eye, a princely air, 
U A presence like a chevalier. 
Half angel and half Lucifer ; 
Fair fingers, jewel'ed manifold 
With great gems set in hoops of gold ; 
Sombrero black, with plume of snow 
That swept his long silk locks below ; 
A red scrape with bars of gold, 
Heedless falling fold on fold ; 
A sash of silk, where flashing swung 
A sword as swift as serpent's tongue, 
In sheath of silver chased in gold ; 
A face of blended pride and pain. 
Of mingled pleading and disdain, 
With shades of glory and of grief; 
And Spanish spurs with bells of steel, 
That dashed and dangled at the heel; 
The famous filibuster chief 
Stood by his tent 'mid tall brown trees 
That top the fierce Cordilleras, 
With brawn arm arch'd above his brow ; 
Stood still ; he stands a picture now, 
Long gazing down the sunset seas. 

What strange strong-bearded men are these 
He led toward the tropic seas ! 
Men sometime of uncommon birth. 

Men rich in histories untold, 

Who boasted not though more than bold, 
Blown from the four parts of the earth. 
Men mighty-thewed as Samson was, 
That had been kings in any cause, 

A remnant of the races past ; 

Dark-brow'd as if in iron cast. 
Broad-breasted as twin gates of brass, 
Men strangely brave and fiercely true. 

Men dared the West when giants were, 

Who erred, yet bravely dared to err ; 
A remnant of that early few 
Who held no crime or curse or vice 
As dark as that of cowardice ; 
With blendings of the worst and best 



POEMS OF PEilSONS AND CSARACTERg. 



459 



Of faults and virtues that have blest 
Or cursed or thrilled the human breast. 
•X- * -x- * * 

Wild lilies tall as maidens are, 
As sweet of breath, as pearly fair, 
As fair as faith, as pure as truth. 

Fell thick before our every tread, 
As in a sacrifice to ruth. 
And all the air with perfume fill'd. 
More sweet than ever man distill'd. 
The ripen'd fruit a fragrance shed 
And hung in hand reach overhead. 
In nest of blossoms on the shoot, 
The bending shoot that bore the fruit. 

* -x- * * * 

111 comes disguised in many forms ; 
Fair winds are but a prophecy 
Of foulest winds full soon to be 
The brighter these, the blacker they ; 
The clearest night has darkest day. 

The brightest days bring blackest storms, 
There came reverses to our arms ; 
I saw the signal-light's alarms 
At night red-crescenting the bay. 
The foe poured down a flood next day 
As strong as tides when tides are high, 

And drove us bleeding in the sea, 

In such wild haste of flight that we 
Had hardly time to arm and fly. 

* * -x- -x- * 

To die with hand and brow unbound 
He gave his gems and jewell'd sword ; 

He walked out from the prison wall 
Dress'd like a prince for a parade, 
And made no note of man or maid. 

But gazed out calmly over all. 

* * -x -x- * 
Two deep, a musket's length they stood, 

A-front, in sandals, nude, and dun 

As death and darkness wove in one, 
Their thick lips thirsting for his blood. 

He took their black hands one by one. 
And smiling, with a patient grace. 
Forgave them all, and took his place. 

He bared his broad brow to the sun. 
Grave one long last look to the sky. 
The white-winged clouds that hurried by. 
The olive hills in orange hue ; 
A last list to the cockatoo 
That hung by beak from cocoa bough 
Hard by, and hung and sung as though 
He never was to sing again, 
Hung all red-crow^n'd and robed in green, 
With belts of gold and blue between. 



A bow, a touch of heart, a pall 
Of purple smoke, a crash, a thud, 
A warrior's raiment rent, and blood, 

A face in dust, and that was all. 

Success had made him more than king ; 
Defeat made him the vilest thing 
In name, contempt or hate can bring : 
So much the leaded dice of war 
Do make or mar of character. 

Joaquin Miller. 




Samuel Johnson-. 



CHARLES XIL 

(From " The Vanity of Human Wishes.") 

SN what foundation stands the warrior's 
pride, 

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles de- 
cide; 

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 

No dangers fright him, and no labors tire ; 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain; 

No joys to him pacific scepters yield; 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 

Behold surrounding kings their power com- 
bine. 

And one capitulate, and one resign ! 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms 
in vain. 

" Think nothing gained," he cries, " till 
naught remain 

On Moscow's walls ; till Gothic standards fly, 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 

The march begins in military state, 



460 POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 

And nations on his eye suspended wait ; But did not chance at length her error mend ? 

Stern famine guards the solitary coast, Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 

And winter barricades the realms of frost. Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course de- Or hostile minions press him to the ground ? 

lay ; His fall was destined to a barren strand, 

Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day ! A petty fortress and a dubious hand ; 

The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands. He left the name, at which the world grew 
And shows his miseries in distant lands ; pale. 

Condemned a needy supplicant to wait. To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. Samuel Johnson. 



JfAPOLEOJf AT ST. HELEJVA. 

(From "Heroes and Hero- Worship.") 

'IS notions of the world, as he expresses them there at St. Helena, are almost tragical to 
consider. He seems to feel the most unaffected surprise that it has all gone so ; that 
he is flung out on the rock here, and the world is still moving on its axis. France is 
great, and all-great ; and, at bottom, he is France. England itself, he says, is by 
nature only an appendage of France ; *' Another Isle of Oleren to France." So it was by na- 
ture, by Napoleon-nature ; and yet look how in fact — Here am I: He cannot understand it ; 
inconceivable that the reality has not corresponded to his programme of it ; that France was not 
all-great ; that he was not France. " Strong delusion," that he should believe the thing to be 
which it is not! The compact, clear-seeing, Italian nature of him, strong, genuine, which he 
once had, has enveloped itself, half dissolved itself, in a turbid atmosphere of French fanfaro- 
nade. The world was not disposed to be trodden down underfoot, to be bound into masses, 
and built together, as he liked, for a pedestal for France and him; the world had quite other 
purposes in view! Napoleon's astonishment is extreme. But alas, what help now ? He had 
gone that way of his; and nature also had gone her way. Having once parted with reality, 
he tumbles helpless in vacuity; no rescue for him. He had to sink there, mournfully as 
man seldom did ; and break his great heart, and die — this poor Napoleon ; a great implement, 

too soon wasted, till it was useless; our last great man! 

Thomas Carlyle. 



m 



MARCO GBIFFOJfL 

(From ''Italy.") 

ARCO GRIFFONI was the last of an ancient family, a family of royal merchants ; 
and the richest citizen in Genoa, perhaps in Europe. His parents dying while yet he 
lay in the cradle, his wealth had accumulated from the year of his birth ; and so 
^ noble a use did he make of it when he arrived at manhood, that wherever he went 
he was followed by the blessings of the people. He would often say, " I hold it only in trust 
for others;" but Genoa was then at her old amusement, and the work grew on his hands. 
Strong as he was, the evil he had to struggle with was stronger than he. His cheerfulness, 
his alacrity, left him ; and, having lifted up his voice for peace, he withdrew at once from the 
sphere of life he had moved in, to become, as it were, another man. 

From that time, and for full fifty years, he was to be seen sitting, like one of the founders 
of his house, at his desk among his money-bags, in a narrow street near the Porto Franco ; 
and he, who in a famine had filled the granaries of the State, sending to Sicily, and even to 
Egypt, now lived only as for his heirs, though there were none to inherit; giving no longer 
to any, but lending to all ; to the rich on their bonds, and the poor on their pledges ; lending 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



461 



at the highest rate, and exacting with the utmost rigor. No longer relieving the miserable, 
he sought onlj^ to enrich himself by their misery ; and there he sate in his gown of frieze, till 
every finger was pointed at him in passing, and every tongue exclaimed : " There sits the 
miser!" 

But in that character, and amidst all that obloquy, he was still the same as ever, still acting 
to the best of his judgment for the good of his fellow-citizens ; and when the measure of their 
calamities was full; when peace had come, but had come to no purpose ; and the lesson, as he 
flattered himself, was graven deep in their minds ; then, but not till then, though his hair had 
long grown gray, he threw off the mask and gave up all he had, to annihilate at a blow his 
great and cruel adversaries, those taxes which,when excessive, break the hearts of the people; 
a glorious achievement for an individual, though a bloodless one, and such as only can be con- 
ceived possible in a small community like theirs. 

Alas! how little did he know of human nature! How little had he reflected on the ruling 
passion of his countrymen, so injurious to others, and at length so fatal to themselves ! Al- 
most instantly they grew arrogant and quarrelsome ; almost instantly they were in arms 
again ; and, before the statue was up that had been voted to his memory, every tax, if we 
may believe the historian, was laid on as before, to awaken vain regrets and wise resolutions. 

Samuel Rogers. 




Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 

To honor all they can. 
The dust of that good man ! 




Samuel Rogers. 



Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
As greatest kings might die to gain ; 
The just, the wise, the brave 
Attend thee to the grave ! 

And you, the soldiers of our wars, 
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, 
Salute him once again. 
Your late commander, — slain ! 

Yes, let your tears indignant fall, 
But leave your muskets on the wall; 
Your country needs you now 
Beside the forge, the plough! 



BURIAL OF LIJ^COLJS'. 

|EACE ! Let the long procession come. 
For hark I — the mournful, muffled drum. 
The trumpet's wail afar ; 
And see ! the awful car ! 



So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
The fallen to his last repose. 

Beneath no mighty dome, 
But in his modest home. 



Peace ! Let the sad procession go. 
While cannon boom, and bells toll slow! 

And go, thou sacred car, 

Bearing our woe afar ! 



The churchyard where his children rest. 
The quiet spot that suits him best. 
There shall his grave be made. 
And there his bones be laid I 



462 



POEMS OF PERSONS AND CHARACTERS. 



And there his countrymen shall come, 
With memory proud, with pity dumb, 
And strangers, far and near, 
For many and many a year! 

For many a year and many an age, 
While History on her ample page 

The virtues shall enroll 

Of that paternal soul ! 

RiCHAKD Henry Stoddard. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 

(Gex. Philip Kearney.) 

fLOSE his eyes ; his work is done ! 
What to him is friend or foeman. 
Rise of moon, or set of sun. 
Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low ! 



As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor ; 
Let him sleep in silent night, 
Sleep forever and forever ; 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars. 
What but death-bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made him ; 
Mortal love weeps idly by, 
God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know! 
Lay him low ! 

George Henry Boker. 



I 






*'0 ye dales of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands; where 
Presiding o'er the scene some rustic tower ." 



"POEM^ OF pLACE^, 




A SCEJ^E RECALLED. 

(From "The Pleasures of the Imagination,'" Book IV.) 

§ye dales 
Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands; 
where 
Oft as the giant flood obliquely strides, 
And his banks open, and his lawns extend. 
Stops short the pleased traveler to view 
Presiding o'er the scene some rustic tower 
Founded by Norman or by Saxon hands ! 

ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook 
The rocky pavement and the mossy falls 
Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream. 
How gladly I recall your well-known seats 
Beloved of old, and that delightful time. 
When all alone, from many a summer's day, 

1 wandered through your calm recesses, led 
Tn silence by some powerful band unseen! 
Nor will I e'er forget you ; nor shall e'er 
The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice 
Of vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim 
Those studies which possessed me in the dawn 
Of life, and fixed the color of my mind 

For every future year; whence even now 
From sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn. 
And, while the world around lies overwhelm- 
ed 
In idle darkness, am alive to thoughts 
Of honorable fame, of truth diving 



Or moral, and of minds to virtue won 
By the sweet magic of harmonious verse. 

Mark Akenside. 

(From "The West Indies."") 

f^HEEE is a land, of every land the pride, 
1® Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world be- 
side ; 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light. 
And milder moons emparadise the night ; 
A land of beauty, valor, virtue, truth. 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth ; 
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting 

shores, 
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair, 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 
In every clime, the magnet of his soul. 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that 

pole; 
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace. 
The heritage of nature's noblest race. 

There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, 
While in his softened looks benignly blen^ 



466 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



The sire, the son, the husband, brother, 

friend ; 
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, 

wife, 
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of 

life; 
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye. 
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
" Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be 

found ? 
Art thou a man ? a patriot? Look around ; 
O, thou Shalt find, ho vve'er thy footsteps roam. 
That land thy country, and that spot thy 

home! 

James Montgomery. 



VERSES OJ^ THE PROSPECT OF 

PLAJfTIJVG ARTS AXB LEARK- 

TJ{G IK AMERICA. 

fHE muse, disgusted at an age and clime 
Barren of every glorious theme. 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 
Producing subjects worthy fame. 

In happy climes, where from the genial sun 
And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 

The force of art by nature seems undone. 
And fancied beauties by the true. 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence. 
Where nature guides, and virtue rules, 

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
The pedantry of courts and schools ; 

There shall be sung another golden age. 

The rise of empire and of arts. 
The good and great inspiring epic rage. 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 



HOME, SWEET HOME! 

(From "Clari, the Maid of Milan,") 

' jf^ ID pleasures and palaces though we may 
^1 roam. 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like 

home! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us 

there. 
Which, seek through the world, is not met 
with elsewhere. 

Home, home! sweet, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home! 

There's no place like home ! 




John Howard Payne. 



Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay. 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way; 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 

Time's noblest oflspring is the last. 

George Berkeley. 



An exile from home, pleasure dazzles in vain ; 
Ah, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! 
The birds singing sweetly that came at my 

call. 
Give me them, and that peace of mind, dear- 
er than all ! 
Home, home ! sweet, sweet home ; 
There's no place like home ! 
There's no place like home ! 

John Howard Payne, 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



467 



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X 



SWEET HOME. 



CAMP of blue, a camp of gray, 
p=ji A peaceful river rolled between. 
Were pitched two rifle shots away, 
The sun had set the west aglow^. 
The evening clouds w^ere crimson snow, 

The twinkling camp fires faintly seen 

Across the dark'ning river. 

Then floated from the Federal band 

The '' Spangled Banner's" starry strain. 
The grays struck up their '' Dixie Land," 
And " Rally Round" and "Eonny Blue" 
And " Red and White" alternate flew — 
Ah, no such flights shall cross again 
The Rappahannock river! 



Like some bird startled in a dream, 
"Home, Home, Sweet Home," and voices 
rang, 
And gray and blue together sang — 

All other songs were like the snow 
Among the pines when winds are stilled. 
And hearts and voices throbbed and thrilled 
With " Home, Sweet Home" forever. 

Anonymous. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD, 

§NCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd. 
And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 



And then, above the glancing " beam 
Of song" a bugle warbled low 



Ah ! never shall the land forget 
How gushed the life-blood of liey br^v§, 



468 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm and fresh and still ; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering 
wain; 
Men start not at the battle-cry ; 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year ; 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot ; 

The timid good may stand aloof. 
The sage may frown ; yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell at last 
The victory of endurance borne. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 

The eternal years of God are hers ; 
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshipers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 
When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die fall of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here ! 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave. 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 

William Cullex Bryant. 



Rudely carved was the porch, with seats be- 
neath ; and a foot-path 

Led through an orchard wide, and disappear- 
ed in the meadow. 

Under the sycamore trees were hives over- 
hung by a pent-house, 

Such as a traveler sees in regions remote by 
the roadside, 

Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed 
image of Mary. 

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was 
the well, with its moss-grown 

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a 
trough for the horses. 

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, 
were the barns and the farm-yard ; 

There stood the broad-wheeled wains, and the 
antique plows, and the harrows ; 

There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, 
in his feathered seraglio, 

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the 
cock, with the self-same 

Voice that in ages of old had startled the 
penitent Peter. 

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves 
a village. In each one 

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; 
and a stair-case 

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the 
odorous corn-loft ; 

There, too, the dove-cot stood, with its meek 
and innocent inmates. 

Murmuring ever of love; while above in the 
variant breezes. 

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and 
sang of mutation. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE ACADIAJf FARMHOUSE. 

(From "Evangeline.") 

f IRMLY builded with rafters of oak, the 
house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the 
pea 5 wreathing aiQund it, 



JflAGARA. 

(Extract.) 

jHE thoughts are strange that crowd into 

my brain, 

While I look upward to thee ! It would seem 
As if God poured thee from His " hollow 

hand," 
And hung His bow upon thine awful front ; 
And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed 

to him 
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, 
" The sound of many waters ;" and had bade 
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back. 
And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks. 
Deep called unto ^eep, And what are w^, 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



469 




Niagara. 
"It would seem as if God poured thee from His 'hollow hand.' " 

That hear the question of that Voice sublime! Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters 

Oh, what are all the notes that ever rung far 

From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering Above its loftiest mountains? — a light 

side ! wave, 

Yea, what is all the riot man can make. That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's 
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ; might. 

And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him John Q, C, Brac^a^, 



470 POEMS OF PLACES. 

jYOOj^day rest. 

(From "Walden.'") 

eOMMONLY 1 rested an hour or two in the shade at noon, after planting; and ate my 
lunch, and read a little by a spring which was the source of a spring and a brook, 
oozing from under Brister's Hill, half a mile from my field. The approach to this was 
through a succession of descending grassy hollows, full of young pitch-pines, into a 
larger wood about the swamp. There, in a very secluded and shady spot, under a spreading 
white-pine, there was yet a clean, firm sward, to sit on. I had dug out the spring and made a 
well of clear, gray water, where I could dip up a pailful without roiling it, and thither I went 
almost every day in midsummer, when the pond was warmest. Thither, too, the woodcock led 
her brood, to probe the mud for worms, flying but a foot above them down the bank, while 
they ran in a troop beneath ; but at last, spying me, she would leave her young and circle 
round and round me, nearer and nearer till within four or five feet, pretending broken wings 
and legs, to attract my attention, and get off her young, who would already have taken up their 
march, with faint wiry peep single file through the swamp, as she directed. Or I heard the peep 
of the young when 1 could not see the parent bird. There, too, the turtle-doves sat over the 
spring, or fluttered from boughtoboughof the soft white-pines over my head; or the red squir- 
rel, coursing down the nearest bough, was particularly familiar and inquisitive. You only 
need sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may ex- 
hibit themselves to you by turns. 

Henry David Thoreau. 




THE BATTLE-FIELD, 

(From '-The Battle of Life.") 

NCE upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little 
where, a fierce battle was fought. It was fought upon a long summer day when the 
waving grass was green. Many a wild flower, formed by the Almighty Hand to be 
a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enameled cup filled high with blood that 
day, and shrinking, dropped. Many an insect, deriving its delicate colour from harmless 
leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its frightened way 
with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of its 
wings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen 
pools collected in the prints of human feet and horses' hoofs, the one prevailing hue still low- 
ered and glimmered at the sun. 

Heaven keep us from^a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon that field, when, com- 
ing up above the black line of distant rising ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, 
she rose into the sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces that had once at 
mothers' breasts sought mothers' eyes, or slumbered happily ! Heaven keep us from a knowl- 
edge of the secrets whispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the scene 
of that day's work and that night's death and suffering! Many a lonely moon was bright 
upon the battle-ground, and many a star kept mournful watch upon it, and many a wind from 
every quarter of the earth blew over it, before the traces of the fight were worn away. 

They lurked and lingered for a long time, but survived in little things ; for. Nature, far 
above the evil passions of men, soon recovered her serenity, and smiled upon the guilty 
battle-ground as she had done before, when it was innocent. The larks sang high above it ; 
the swallows skimmed and dipped, and flitted to and fro ; the shadows of the flying clouds 
pursued each other swiftly over grass and corn and turnip-field and wood, and over roof and 
church spire in the nestling town among the trees, away into the bright distance on the bor" 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



471 



ders of the sky and earth, where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown and grew up, and 
were gathered in ; the stream that had been crimsoned turned a water-mill ; men whistled at 
the plough ; gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups at work ; sheep and oxen pas- 
tured ; boys whooped and called in fields, to scare away the birds ; smoke rose from cottage 
chimneys; Sabbath bells rang peacefully; old people lived and died ; the timid creatures of 
the field, and simple flowers of the- bush and garden, grew and withered in their destined 
terms ; and all upon the fierce and bloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands 
had been killed in the great fight. 

But, there were deep green patches in the growing corn, at first, that people looked at 
awfully. Year after year they reappeared ; and it was known that, underneath those fertile 
spots, heaps of men and horses lay buried indiscriminately, enriching the ground. The husband- 
men who ploughed those places shrunk from the great worms abounding there ; and the 
sheaves they yielded were, for many a long year, called the Battle Sheaves, and set apart; 
and no one ever knew a Battle Sheaf to be among the last load at a Harvest Home. For along 
time, every furrow that was turned revealed some fragments of the fight. For a long time 
there were wounded trees upon the battle-ground; and scraps of hacked and broken fence 
and wall, where deadly struggles had been made ; and trampled parts where not a leaf or blade 
would grow. For a long time, no village girl would dress her hair or bosom with the sweet- 
est flower from that field of death ; and, after many a year had come and gone, the berries 
growing there were still believed to leave too deep a stain upon the hand that plucked them. 

Charles Dickens. 
^o 



MOUJ^TAIJY JYEIGHBORS. 

rl gracious mountain neighbors ! 
How good it is to see 
Your dwelling close beside us, 

Upbuilt in azure free ; 
Beside us, yet beyond us, 

To shame our downward moods, 
With beckoning invitation, 
To purer altitudes. 



O great, befriending natures. 

Whom God hath set about 
Our human habitations. 

How blank were life without 
Your presence inspiring. 

Your silent, upward call! 
Above us and yet of us. 

One heaven enfolds us all. 

Lucy Larcom. 



So close and yet so distant, 

You circle us around ; 
Your calm, our aspiration. 

Have yet a common ground. 
Out of earth's inward turmoil. 

The chaos and the strife. 
That underlie our levels. 

Ascends your steadfast life. 

O holy mountain neighbors. 

Akin to earth ye stand — 
The angelic to the mortal — 

Not always hid in grand, 
Far heavens of isolation ; 

Lofty and lowly blend 
In spiritual communion ; 

These rise, as those descend. 



THE BUCCAJVEER'S ISLAKB. 

(From "The Buccaneer.") 

fHE island lies nine leagues away. 
Along its solitary shore 
Of craggy rock and sandy bay, 
No sound but ocean's roar. 
Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her 

home, 
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling 
foam. 

But when the light winds lie at rest. 
And on the glassy, heaving sea. 
The black duck, with her glossy breast, 
Sits swinging silently — 
How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, 
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 



i 



472 



POEMS OF PLACES* 



And inland rests the green, warm dell; 

The brook comes tinkling down its side; 

From out the trees the Sabbath bell 

Rings cheerful far and wide, 
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the 

flocks, 
That feed upon the vale among the rocks. 



Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat. 
In former days within the vale ; 
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet : 
Curses were on the gale ; 
Rich goods lay on the sand^ and murdered 

men; 
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 
Richard Henry Dana. 




"Breezes of the south, have ye fanned 
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this ' 



THE PRAIRIES. 



fHESE are the gardens of the desert, 
these. 
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, 
For which the speech of England has no name, 
The Prairies. I behold them for the first, 
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they 

stretch 
In airy undulations, far away; 
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell. 
Stood still with all his rounded billows fixed, 
And motionless forever. Motionless ? 
No, they are all unchained again. The clouds 
Sweep over with their shadows, and beneath, 
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 



Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
The sunny ridges! Breezes of the south! 
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flow- 
ers. 
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on 

high, 
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not, ye have 

played 
Among the palms of Mexico and vines 
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks 
That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
Into the calm Pacific ; have ye fanned 
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this ? 

William Cullen Bryant. 



POEMS OF PLACES. . 473 

KE W AMSTERDAM. 

(From "■Knickerbocker's History of New York.") 

'HE sage council, as has been mentioned in a preceding chapter, not being able to de- 
termine on any plan for the building of their city, the cows, in a laudable fit of patriot- 
ism, took it under their peculiar charge, and as they went to and from pasture, estab- 
lished paths through the bushes, on each side of which the good folks built their 
houses; which is one cause of the rambling and picturesque turns and labyrinths, which dis- 
tinguished certain streets of New York at this very day. 

The houses of the higher class were generally constructed of wood, excepting the gable 
end, w^hich was of small black and yellow Dutch bricks, and always faced on the streets, as 
our ancestors, like their descendants, were very much given to outward show, and were noted 
for putting the best leg foremost. The house was always furnished with abundance of very 
large doors and small windows on every floor; the date of its erection was curiously desig- 
nated by iron figures on the front ; and on the top of the roof was perched a fierce little 
weathercock, to let the family into the important secret which way the wind blew. These, ^ 
like the weathercocks on the tops of our steeples, pointed so many different ways, that every y 
man could have a wind to his mind ; the most staunch and loyal citizens, however, always 
went according to the weathercock on the top of the governor's house, which was certainly 
the most correct, as he had a trusty servant employed every morning to climb up and set it 
to the right quarter. 

In those good days of simplicity and sunshine, a passion for cleanliness was the leading 
principle in domestic economy, and the universal test of an able housewife, a character that 
formed the utmost ambition of our unenlightened grandmothers. The front door was never 
opened except on marriages, funerals, new-years' days, the festival of St. ISTicholas, or some 
such great occasion. It was ornamented with a gorgeous brass knocker, curiously wrought 
sometimes in the device of a dog, and sometimes of a lion's head, and was daily burnished 
with such religious zeal, that it was ofttimes w'orn out by the very precautions taken for its 
preservation. The whole house was constantly in a state of inundation, under the discipline 
of mops and brooms and scrubbing-brushes ; and the good housewives of those days were, a 
kind of amphibious animal, delighting exceedingly to be dabbling in water, insomuch that a 
historian of the day gravely tells us, that many of his towns women grew to have webbed 
fingers like unto a duck ; and some of them, he had little doubt, could the matter be examin- 
ed into, would be found to have the tails of mermaids ; but this I look upon to be a mere 
sport of fancy, or what is worse, a wilful misrepresentation. 

The grand parlor was the sanctum sanctoruni, where the passion for cleaning was indulged 
without control. In this sacred apartment no one was permitted to enter, excepting the mistress 
and her confidential maid, who visited it once a week, for the purpose of giving it a thorough 
cleaning, and putting things to rights, always taking the precaution to leave their shoes at 
the door, and entering devoutly in their stocking feet. After scrubbing the floor, sprink- 
ling it with fine white sand which was curiously stroked into angles, and curves and rhom- 
boids, with a broom, after washing the windows, rubbing and polishing the furniture, and 
putting a new bunch of evergreens in the fire-place, the window-shutters were again closed to 
keep out the flies, and the room carefully locked up until the revolution of time brought round 
the weekly cleaning day. 

As to the family, they always entered in at the gate, and most generally lived in the kitch- 
en. To have seen a numerous household assembled around the fire, one would have imagined 
that he w^as transported back to those happy days of primeval simplicity, w^hich float before 
our imaginations like golden visions. The fire-places were of a truly patriarchal magnitude, 
where the whole family, old and young, master and servant, black and white, nay, even the 



474 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



very cat and dog, enjoyed a community of privilege, and had each a right to a corner. Here 
the old burgher would sit in perfect silence, puffing his pipe, looking into the fire with half- 
shut eyes, and thinking of nothing for hours together; the goede vrouw on the opposite side 
would employ herself diligently in spinning yarn, or knitting stockings. The young folks 
would crowd around the hearth, listening with breathless attention to some old crone of a 
negro, who was the oracle of the family, and who, perched like a raven in a corner of the 
chimney, would croak forth for a long winter afternoon a string of incredible stories about 
New England witches, grisly ghosts, horses without heads, and hairbreadth escapes and bloody 
encounters among the Indians. 




y^^J^'^i^^yt^^L^^ti^^^yiA-^^'^^i^^ 



In those happy days a well-regulated family always rose with the dawn, dined at eleven, 
and went to bed at sun-down. Dinner was invariably a private meal, and the fat old burghers 
showed incontestible symptoms of disapprobation and uneasiness at being surprised by a visit 
from a neighbor on such occasions. But though our worthy ancestors were thus singularly 
averse to giving dinners, yet they kept up the social bands of intimacy by occasional banquet- 
ings, called tea-parties. 

These fashonable parties were generally confined to the higher classes, or noblesse, that is 
to say, such as kept their own cows, and drove their own wagons. The company commonly 
assembled at three o'clock and went away about six, unless it was in winter time, when the 
fashonable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might get home before dark. The tea- 
table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, well stored with slices of fat pork, fried brown, 
cut up into morsels, and swimming in gravy. The company being seated around the genial 
board, and each furnished with a fork, evinced their dexterity in launching at the fattest 



POEMS OF PLACES. 475 

pieces in this mighty dish, in much the same manner as sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, or 
our Indians spear salmon in the lakes. Sometimes the table was graced with immense apple 
pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears ; but it was always sure to boast an enor- 
mous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and called doughnuts, or olykoeks, a 
delicious kind of cake, at present scarce known in this city, excepting in genuine Dutch families. 

The tea was served out of a majestic delft teapot, ornamented with paintings of little fat 
Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs, with boats sailing in the air, and houses 
built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fantasies. The beaux distinguished 
themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot from a huge copper tea-kettle, which 
would have made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate days sweat, merely to look at it. 
To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup, and the company alter- 
nately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an improvement was introduced by a 
shrewd and economic old lady, which was to suspend a large lump directly over the tea-ta- 
ble, by a string from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth, an ingenious 
expedient which is still kept up by some families in Albany; but which prevails without ex- 
ception in Communipaw, Bergen, Flatbush, and all our uncontaminated Dutch villages. 

At these primitive tea-parties the utmost propriety and dignity of deportment prevailed. 
]N'o flirting nor coquetting, no gambling of old ladies, nor hoyden chattering and romping of 
young ones, no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains in their pock- 
ets, nor amusing conceits, and monkey divertisements, of smart young gentlemen with no 
brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated themselves demurely in their rush- 
bottomed chairs, and knit their woolen stockings ; nor ever opened their lips, excepting to 
say, " yaw, Mynher" or "yah, yah, Vrouw," to any question that was asked them ; behaving, 
in all things, like decent, well-educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tranquilly 
smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of the blue and white tiles with which the 
fire-places were decorated ; wherein sundry passages of Scriptures were piously portrayed ; 
Tobit and his dog figured to great advantage ; Haman swung conspicuously on his gibbet ; 
and Jonah appeared most manfully bouncing out of his whale, like Harlequin through a bar- 
rel of fire. 

The parties broke up without noise and without confusion. They were carried home by 
their own carriages, that is to say, by the vehicles that Nature had provided them, excepting 
such of the wealthy as could afford to keep a wagon. The gentlemen gallantly attended their 
fair ones to their respective abodes, and took leave of them with a hearty smack at the door; 
which, as it was an established piece of etiquette, done in perfect simplicity and honesty of 
heart, occasioned no scandal at the time, nor should it at the present ; if our great-grandfath- 
ers approved of the custom, it would argue a great want of reverence in their descendants to 
say a word against it. AYashixgtox Irvixg. 

o 

THE STBEjYGTH OF THE HILLS. 

^^^ Y thoughts go home to that old brown Their watch, while the world should wake or 

house, sleep, 

With its low roof sloping down to the east, Till the trumpet should sound on the judg- 

And its garden fragrant with roses and thyme, ment day. 
That blossom no longer except in rhyme, 

Where the honey bees used to feast. I used to wonder of what they dreamed 

As they brooded there in their silent might. 

Afar in the west the great hills rose, While March winds smote them, or June rains 

Silent and steadfast and gloomy and gray : fell, 

I thought they were giants, and doomed to Or the snows of Winter their ghostly spell 

keep Wrought in the long and lonesome night. 



476 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



They remembered a younger world than ours, 

Before the trees on their top were born, 
When the old brown house was itself a tree, 
And waste were the lields where now you see 
The winds astir in the tasseled corn. 



But calm in the distance the great hills rose. 

Deaf unto raptures and dumb unto pain. 
Since they knew that Joy is the mother of Grief, 
And remembered a butterfly's life is brief. 
And the sun sets only to rise again. 




But calm in the distance the great hills rose, 
Deaf unto raptures and dumb unto pain." 



And I was as young as the hills were old, 
And the world was warm with the breath 
of Spring. 
And the roses red and the lilies white 
Budded and bloomed for my heart's de- 
light. 
And the birds in my heart began to sing. 



They will brood, and dream, and be silent, as 

now. 

When the youngest children alive to-day 

Have grown to be women and men, grown old. 

And gone from the world like a tale that is told, 

And even whose echo forgets to stay. 

Louise Chandler Moultox. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



477 



AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIJ^. 

tLXi hail! thou noble land, 
Our fathers' native soil ! 
Oh, stretch thy mighty hand, 
Gigantic grown by toil, 
O'er the vast Atlantic waves to our shore! 
For thou, with magic might, 
Can'st reach to where the light 
Of Phoebus travels bright 
The world o'er. 



The Genius of our clime. 

From his pine-embattled steep, 
Shall hail the great sublime ; 
While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conchs the kindred league shall 
proclaim ; 
Then let the world combine — 
O'er the main our naval line. 
Like the milky way, shall shine 
Bright in fame. 

Though ages long have passed 

Since our fathers left their home. 
Their pilot in the blast 
O'er untraveled seas to roam. 
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! 
And shall we not proclaim 
That blood of honest fame. 
Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains ? 

While the language, free and bold, 

AVhich the bard of Avon sang. 
In which our Milton told 
How the vault of heaven rang 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; 
While this, with reverence meet, 
Ten thousand echoes greet. 
From rock to rock repeat 
Round our coast : 



While the manners, while the arts 

That mould a nation's soul 
Still cling around our hearts, 
Between let Ocean roll, 
Our joint communion breaking with the sun ; 
Yet still, from either beach. 
The voice of blood shall reach. 
More audible than speech : 
" We are one I" 

Washington Allston. 



SO UTH AMERICAN SCEJSTER Y. 

From ''The Missionary of the Andes." 

^ENTEATH aerial cliffs and glittering 

® snows, 

'The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose. 
Chief of the mountain tribes , high overhead, 
The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread; 
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires. 
And Chilian trailed its smoke and smoulder- 
ing tires. 
A glen beneath — a lonely spot of rest — 
Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nost. 
Summer was in its prime ; the parrot flocks 
Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks ; 
The chrj^somel and purple butterfly. 
Amid the clear blue light are wandering by ; 
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers. 
With twinkling wing is spinning o'er the 

flowers ; 
The woodpecker is heard with busy bill. 
The mock-bird sings — and all beside is still. 
And look ! the cataract that bursts so high. 
As not to mar the deep tranquility. 
The tumult of its dashing falls suspends. 
And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ; 
Through whose illumined spray and sprink- 

ing dews, 
Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow 

hues, 
Checkering with partial shade, the beams of 

noon, 
And arching the gray rock with wild festoon, 
Here, its gay network and fantastic twine 
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine. 
And oft as the fresh airs of morning breathe. 
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. 
There, through the trunks, with moss and 

lichens white 
The sunshine darts its interrupted light. 
And 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes. 
With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. 
William Lisle Bowles. 



THE CORAL GROVE. 

^EEP in the wave is a coral grove, 

11/ Where the purple mullet and gold-fish 

rove ; 
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of 

blue. 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty shine 
Far down in a green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand like the mountain drift, 



I 



47S 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 

From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; 

Their water is calm and still below, 

For the winds and waves are absent there, 

And the sands are as bright as the stars that 

glow 
In the motionless fields of upper air. 
There with its waving blade of green, 
The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter. 
There, with a slight and easy motion, 
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep 



And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
Are bending like corn on the upland lea. 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms 
Has made the top of the wave his own. 
And when the ship from his fury flies. 
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies. 
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore; 
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, 
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove. 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly 
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 
James Gates Percival. 




"Brown-pillared groves and green-arched alleys, 
That Freedom's holiest temples be.'" 

THE FOREST. 

(From "Miami Woods.") 



^ROAD plains, blue waters, hills and val- 
P leys, 
That ring with anthems of the free. 



Brown-pillared groves and green-arched alleys, 

That Freedom's holiest temples be ! 
These forest aisles are full of story ; 



POEMS OF PLACES. 479 

Here many a one of old renown As, living, walk with us the dead. 

First sought the meteor light of glory, Man's fame, so often evanescent, 

And niid its transient flash went down. Links here with thoughts and things that 

last ; 

Historic names forever greet us, And all the bright and teeming Present 

Where'er our wandering way we thread; Thrills with the great and glorious Past. 

Familiar forms and faces meet us, William. D. Gali^ghek. 



AJ^ Ej^GLisH ma:n'sio:n'. 

(From "Eeginald Ualton.^' 

HEY halted to bait their horses at a little village on the main coast of the Palatinate, 
and then pursued their course leisurely through a rich and level country, until the 
groves of Grypherwast received them amidst all the breathless splendour of a noble 
sunset. It would be difficult to express the emotions with which young Eeginald re- 
garded, for the first time, the ancient demesne of his race. The scene was one which a 
stranger, of years and experience very superior to his, might have been pardoned for contem- 
plating with some enthusiasm, but to him the first glimpse of the venerable front, embosom- 
ed amidst its 

"Old contemporary trees," 

was the more than realization of cherished dreams. Involuntarily he drew in his rein, and 
the whole party as involuntarily following the motion, they approached the gate^ ay together 
at the slowest pace. 

The gateway is almost in the heart of the village, for the hall of Grypherwast had been 
reared long before English gentlemen conceived it to be a point of dignity to have no humble 
roofs near their own. A beautiful stream runs hard by, and the hamlet is almost within the 
arms of the princely forest, whose ancient oaks, and beeches, and gigantic pine-trees, darken 
and ennoble the aspect of the whole surrounding region. The peasantry, who watch the flocks 
and herds in those deep and grassy glades — the fishermen, who draw their subsistence from 
the clear waters of the river — and the woodmen, whose axes resound all day long among the 
inexhaustible thickets, are the sole inhabitants of the simple place. Over their cottages the 
hall of Grypherwast has predominated for many long centuries, a true old northern manor- 
house, not devoid of a certain magnificence in its general aspect, though making slender 
pretentions to anything like elegance in its details. The central tower, square, massy, rude, 
and almost destitute of windows, recalls the knightly and troubled period of the old Border 
wars ; while the overshadowing roofs, carved balconies and multifarious chimneys scattered 
over the rest of the building, attest the successive influence of many more or less tasteful 
generations. Excepting in the original baronial tower, the upper parts of the house are all 
formed of oak, but this with such an air of strength and solidity as might well shame many 
modern structures raised of better materials. Nothing could be more perfectly in harmony 
with the whole character of the place than the autumnal brownness of the stately trees 
around. The same descending rays were tinging with rich lustre the outlines of their bare 
trunks, and the projecting edges of the old-fashioned bay-windows which they sheltered ; and 
some rooks of very old family were cawing overhead almost in the midst of the hospitable 
smoke-wreaths. Within a couple of yards from the door of the house an eminently respect- 
able-looking old man, in a powdered wig and very rich livery of blue and scarlet, was sitting 
on a garden-chair with a pipe in his mouth, and a cool tankard within his reach upon the 
ground, 

JOBN GlPSON I^OCKSABT, 



11 



480 



POEMS OF PLACES. 




Pleasant were many scenes, but 
most to me 
The solitude of vast extent." 



PRIMEVAL JfATUBE. 

(From '' The Course of Time.") 



fLEASANT were many scenes, but most to 
me 
The solitude of vast extent, untouched 
By hand of art where Nature sowed herself, 
And reaped her crops ; whose garments were 

the clouds ; 
"Whose minstrels, brooks; whose lamps, the 

moon and stars; 
Whose organ-choir, the voice of many waters; 
Whose banquets, morning dews; whose he- 
roes, Storms : 



Whose warriors, mighty winds ; whose lovers, 

flowers ; 
Whose orators, the thunderbolts of God ; 
Whose palaces, the everlasting hills ; 
Whose ceiling, heaven's unfathomable blue ; 
And from whose rocky turrets battled high. 
Prospects immense spread out on all sides 

round ; 
Lost now beneath the welkin and the main, 
ISTow walled with hills that slept above th^ 

storms, 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



481 



Most fit was such a place for musing men, 
Happiest sometimes when musing without 

aim. 
It was indeed a wondrous sort of bliss 
The lovely bard enjoyed, when forth he walk- 
ed, 
Unpurposed ; stood, and knew not- why ; sat 

down. 
And knew not where ; arose, and knew not 

when ; 
Had eyes, and saw not ; ears, and nothing 

heard ; 
And sought, sought neither earth nor heaven ; 

sought naught ; 
Nor meant to think ; but ran, mean time, 

through vast 
Of visionary things ; fairer than aught 
That was, and saw the distant tops of 

thoughts. 
Which men of common stature never saw, 
Greater than aught that largest worlds could 

hold. 
Or give idea of, to those who read. 

Egbert Pollok. 



SOJTG OF THE BROOK. 

(From " The Princess.") 

COME from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern 
To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town. 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow. 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come, and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow. 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter as I flow 
To join the brimming river, 



For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout. 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamj^ flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery water-break 

Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam glance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars, 

I loiter round my cresses. 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



A SUMMER SABBATH WALK. 

^jjNELIGHTFUL is this loneliness ; it calms 

12/ My heart ; pleasant the cool beneath 
these elms. 

That throw across the streams a moveless 
shade. 

Here Nature in her midnoon whisper speaks ; 

How peaceful every sound! the ring-dove's 
plaint, 

Moaned from the twilight center of the grove, 

While every other woodland lay is mute. 

Save when the wren flits from her down-cov- 
ed nest. 

And from the root-sprig trills her ditty clear ; 

The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp; th^ 
buzz, 



482 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee, 

That, soon as loosed, booms with full twang 

away ; 
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal, 
Scared from the shallows by my passing tread, 
Dimpling, the water glides; with here and 

there 
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay 
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed 

trout 
Watches his time to spring; or, from above, 
Some feathered dam, purveying midst the 

boughs, 
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless 

brood 
Bears off the prize. Sad emblem of man's lot! 
He, giddy insect, from his native leaf. 
Where safe and happily he might have lurked, 
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, 
Forgetful of his origin, and, worse. 
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream; 
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape. 
Buoyant he flutters but a little while. 
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky 
For heaven itself, and sinking, meets his fate. 

Now let me trace the stream up to its source 
Among the hills ; its runnel by degrees 
Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle ; 
Closer and closer still the banks approach, 
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble 

shoots, 
With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn 

spray, 
That, fain to quit the dangle, glad I mount 
Into the open air. Grateful the breeze 
That fans my throbbing temples ; smiles the 

plain 
Spread wide below; how sweet the placid 

view! 
But oh, more sweet the thought, heart-sooth- 
ing thought, 
That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons 
Of toil, partake this day the common joy 
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale. 
Of breathing in the silence of the woods, 
And blessing him who gave the Sabbath day. 
Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb. 
To think that now the townsman wanders 

forth 
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy 
The coolness of the day's decline ; to see 
His children sport around, and simply pull 
The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon. 
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix, 



Again I turn me to the hill and trace 
The wizard stream, now scarce to be discern- 
ed; 
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny 

leaves, 
And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and 

down. 
Now, when the downward sun has left the 

glens. 
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced 
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic 
The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the 

chasm. 
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. 
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry, 
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. 
But, hark ! a plaintive sound floating along ! 
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shielin ; now it 

dies 
Away, now rises full ; it is the song 
Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs 
Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear ; 
It is the music of the heart, the voice 
Of venerable age, of guileless youth, 
In kindly circle seated on the ground 
Before their wicker door. Behold the man ! 
The grandsire and the saint ; his silvery locks 
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies. 
Upon the smooth-cropped sward, the open 

book. 
His comfort, stay, and ever new delight ! 
While, heedless, at his side, the lisping boy 
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his 
couch. 

James Grahame. 



SWEET SWAJ^ OF A VOJf. 

(Poem read at the Dedication of a Fountain presented 
to the town of Stralford-upon-Avon by G. W. Childs, of 
Philadelphia.) 

W'ELCOME, thrice welcome is thy silvery 
gleam. 
Thou long imprisoned stream! 
Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads 
As splashing rain-drops to the flowery meads. 
As summer's breath to Avon's whispering 

reeds I 
From rock- walled channels, drowned in ray- 
less night. 
Leap forth to life and light ; 
Wake from the darkness of thy troubled 

dream, 
And greet with answering smile the morn- 
ing's beam I 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



483 



No purer lymph the white-limbed Naiad knows 

Than from thy chalice flows ; 
Not the bright spring of Afric's sunny shores, 
Starry with spangles washed from golden 

ores, 
Nor glassy stream Blandusia's fountain pours. 
Nor wave translucent where Sabrina fair 

Braids her loose-flowing hair. 
Nor the swift current, stainless as it rose 
Where chill Arveiron steals from Alpine 
snows. 

Here shall the traveler stay his weary feet 

To seek thy calm retreat ; 
Here at high noon the brown-armed reaper 

rest ; 
Here, when the shadows, lengthening from the 

west. 
Call the mute song-bird to his leafy nest, 
Matron and maid shall chat the cares away 

That brooded o'er the day. 
While flocking round them troops of children 

meet, 
And all the arches ring with laughter sweet. 

Here shall the steed his patient life who 
spends 
In toil that never ends. 
Hot from his thirsty tramp o'er hill and plain, 
Plunge his red nostrils, while the torturing 

rein 
Drops in loose loops beside his floating mane ; 
Nor the poor brute that shares his master's 
lot- 
Find his small needs forgot — 
Truest of humble, long enduring friends. 
Whose presence cheers, whose guardian care 
defends! 

Here lark and thrush and nightingale shall 

sip. 
And skimming swallows dip. 
And strange shy wanderers fold their lustrous 

plumes 
Fragrant from bowers that lent their sweet 

perfumes 
Where Paestum'srose or Persia's lilac blooms ; 
Here from his cloud the eagle stoops to drink 

At the full basin's brink, 
And whet his beak against its rounded lip. 
His glossy feathers glistening as they drip. 

Here shall the dreaming poet linger long. 
Far from his listening throng — 

30 



Nor lute nor lyre his trembling hand shall 

bring ; 
Here no frail Muse shall imp her crippled 

wing, 
No faltering minstrel strain his throat to sing! 
These hallowed echoes who shall dare to 

claim, 
Whose tuneless voice would shame. 
Whose jangling chords with jarring notes 

would wrong 
The nymphs that heard the Swan of Avon's 

song? 

What visions greet the pilgrim's raptured 
eyes ! 
What ghosts made real arise! 

The dead return — they breathe — they live 
again. 

Joined by the host of Fancy's airy train, 

Fresh ft-oui the springs of Shakspere's quick- 
ening brain ! 

The stream that slakes the soul's diviner 
thirst ' 
Here found the sunbeams first ; 

Eich with his fame, not less shall memory 
prize 

The gracious gift that humbler wants, sup- 
plies. 

O'er the wide waters reached the hand that 

gave 
To all this bounteous wave, 
With health and strength and joyous beauty 

fraught ; 
Blest be the generous pledge of friendship, 

brought 
From the far home of brother's love, un- 

bought ! 
Long may fair Avon's fountain flow, enrolled 
With storied shrines of old, 
Castalia's spring, Egeria's dewy cave. 
And Horeb's rock the God of Israel clave ! 

Land of our Fathers, ocean makes us two. 

But heart to heart is true ! 
Proud is your towering daughter in the West, 
Yet in her burning life-blood reign confest. 
Her mother's pulses beating in her breast. 
This holy fount, w^hose rills from heaven de- 
scend. 

Its gracious drops shall lend — 
Both foreheads bathed in that baptismal dew. 
And love make one the old home and the new. 

Oliver We>t)ell Holmes, 



484 



POEMS OF PLACES. 




I 



II 



'The stately homes of England, 
How beautiful they stand !" 



THE HOMES 

f^IIE stately homes of England, 
F How beautiful they stand ! 
Amidst their tall, ancestral trees. 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across the greensward bound. 

Through shade and sunny gleam, 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household Ipv^ 



OF EKGLAKD. 

Meet in the ruddy light! 
There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told. 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 



The blessed homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
Solemn, ^et sweety the Qhuroh-beU's chime 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



485 



Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 
Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The cottage homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep. 

Each from its nook of leaves, 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath the eaves. 

The free, fair homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall. 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall! 
And green forever be the groves. 

And bright the flowery sod. 



Where first the child's glad spirit loves 
Its country and its God. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 




Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 




" For to the hills has Freedom ever clung." 
SOJ^JSTET. 

(Suggested by a proposition, on the part of the New York Historical Society, that a new poetical name should 

be given to the United States.) 

WORTHY the patriot's thought and poet's By a true watchword all of mountain birth; 

ly^®» For to the hills has Freedom ever clung, 

This second baptism of our native earth And their proud name shall designate the 

Tq consecrate anew her manhood's fire, free \ 



486 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



That when its echoes through the land are 
rung, 
Her children's breasts may warm to liberty! 
My country ! in the van of nations thou 
Art called to raise Truth's lovely banner 
high; 
'Tis fit a noble title grace thy brow, 
Born of thy race, beneath thy matchless 
sky; 
And Alps and Apennines resign their fame, 
When thrills the world's deep heart with Al- 
leghania's name. 

Henry Theodore Tuckeraian. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

^WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the 

!© plain. 

Where health and plenty cheered the laboring 

swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. 
And parting summer's lingering bloom delay- 
ed ; 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could 

please. 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm, 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topped the neighbor- 
ing hill. 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the 

shade. 
For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
How often have I blessed the coming day. 
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play ! 
And all the village train, from labor free. 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending, as the old surveyed. 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round ; 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown 
By holding out to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face 
While secret laughter tittered round the place; 
The bashful maiden's sidelong looks of love. 
The matron's glance that would those looks 
reprove ; 



These were thy charms, sweet village ! Sports 

like these. 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to 

please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influ- 
ence shed ; 
These were thy charms ; but all thy charms 

are fled ; 
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
And desolation saddens all thy green. 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But choked with sedges works its weedy way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lap-wing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering 

wall ; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 

hand. 
Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has 

made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
When every rood of ground maintained its 

man ; 
For him light labor spread her wholesome 

store. 
Just gave what life required, but gave no 

more; 
His best companions, innocence and health. 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn where scattered hamlets rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
Those calm desires that asked but little room. 
Those healthful sports that graced the peace- 
ful scene. 
Lived in each look and brightened all the 
^reen, 



POEMS OF TLACES. 



487 



These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no morec 
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangled walks and ruined grounds. 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn 
grew, 



Amidst the swains to show my book-learned 
skill; 

Around my fire an evening group to draw. 

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 

And, as an hare, whom hounds and horn pur- 
sue, 

Pants to the place from whence at first she 
flew, 

I still had hopes, ray long vexations past. 




'And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree.' 



Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to 

pain. 
In all my wanderings round this world of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down, 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose. 
I still had hope, for pride attends us still. 



Here to return, and die at home at last. 
O blessed retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine ! 
How happy he who crowns, in shades like 

these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations 

try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ; 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 



48S 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous 

deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves, to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend, 
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently shapes the way; 
And, all his prospects brightening at the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be pass- 
ed. 
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 

close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There, as I passed with careless step and slow. 
The mingling notes came softened from below; 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their 

young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school. 
The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whis- 
pering wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant 

mind; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filled each pause the nightingale had 

made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread. 
For all the blooming flush of life is fled; 
All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread. 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses 

spread. 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 
She only left of ail the harmless train. 
The sad historian of the pensive plain! 
Near yonder copse, where once the garden 

smiled. 
And still where many a garden flower grows 

wild. 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis- 
close, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich on forty pounds a year. 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change 

his place ; 
Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power. 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 



Far other aims his heart had learned to prize. 
More skilled to raise the wretched, than to 

rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their 

pain ; 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged 

breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claim al- 
lowed; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away. 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 
Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields 

were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn- 
ed to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt, at every call. 
He watched and wept, he praved and felt for 

all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the 

skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood ; at his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to 

raise. 
And his last faltering accents whispered 

praise. 
At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double 

sway, 
And fools who came to scoff" remained to pray. 
The service passed, around the pious man, 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
Even children followed, with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown, to share the good 

man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- 
tressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were 
given. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



489 



But ail his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 
storm. 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds 
are spread. 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the 
way, 

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay. 

There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule, 

The village master taught his little school. 

A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 

I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face ; 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited 
glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frown- 
ed ; 

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 

The love he bore to learning was in fault. 

The village all declared how much he knew : 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too, 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre- 
sage, 

And e'en the story ran that he could guage. 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 

For e'en though vanquished, he could argue 
still. 

While w-ords of learned length and thunder- 
ing sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder 
grew 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame ; the very spot 

Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 

Where once the sign-post caught the passing 
eye, 

Now lies that house where nut-brown 
draughts inspired. 

Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil re- 
tired, 

Where village statesmen talked with looks 
profound. 

And news much older than their ale went 
round. 

Imagination fondly stoops to trace 

The parlor splendors of that festive place ; 

The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded 
floor, 



The varnished clock that clicked behind the 

door; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use ; 
The tw elve good rules, the royal game of 

goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the 

day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel 

gay, 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 
Vain transitory splendor! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
Relax his ponderous strength and lean to 

hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be pressed, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
Yes, let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born 

sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain. 
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's de- 
cay, 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted 

ore. 
And shouting folly hails them from her shore; 
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a 

name 



490 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lalce, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horse, his equipage, and hounds; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half 

their growth ; 
His seat, where solitary spots are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies ; 
While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all, 
Tn barren splendor, feebly waits the fiill. 
As some fair female, unadorned and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her 

reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup- 
lies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past, for charms 

are frail. 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fjires the land, by luxury betrayed ; 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed. 
But verging to decline, its splendors rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While scourged by famine from the smiling 

land. 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms, a garden and a grave. 
Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed. 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth di- 
vide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baleful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn 

pomps display. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the 

way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight 
reign, 



Here, riclily decked, admits the gorgeous 

train. 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing 

square, 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare; 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah, turn 

thine eyes 
Where the poor houseless, shivering female 

lies; 
She once perhaps, in village plenty blessed, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distressed ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the 

thorn ; 
Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled. 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
And pinched with cold, and shrinking from 

the shower, 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
When, idly first, ambitious of the town, 
She left her wheel, and robes of country 

brown. 
Do thine, sweet Auburn — thine the loveliest 

train — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 
Ah, no! to distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes be- 
tween. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they 

go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far difterent there from all that charmed be- 
fore. 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
Those blazing suns that dart a downw^ard ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to 

sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance 

crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around, 
Wliere at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless 

prey. 
And savage men more murderous still than 

they ; 
While oft in whirls the wild tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the 

skies; 




0£.^ 




4di 



POEMS Oi^ PLACED. 



Far different these from every former scene ; 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that 

parting day, 
That called them from their native walks 

away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked 

their last. 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Returned and wept; and still returned to 

weep. 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe. 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave; 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent, went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for a father's arms ; 
With louder plaints the naother spoke her 

woes. 
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose. 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many 

a tear, 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly 

dear, 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 
O luxury I thou cursed by heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for 

thee! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own ; 
At every draught more large and large they 

grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapped their strength, and every part un- 
sound, 



Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin 

round. 
Even now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I 

stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land ; 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 

sail. 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore and darken all the strand ; 
Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
And kind connubial tenderness are there, 
And piety with wishes placed above. 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly when sensual joys invade, 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride, 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me 

so. 
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 
Farewell ! — and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried. 
On Tornea's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, — 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow; 
And winter wraps the polar world in snow, — 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigors of the inclement clime. 
Aid slighted truth ; with thy persuasive strain 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him that states of native strength pos- 

essed — 
Though very poor — may still be very blessed ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift de- 
cay. 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



AUTUMJy IJV THE HIGHLAJVDS. 

(From "The Land of Lome.") 

AY after day, as the autumn advances, the tint of the hills is getting deeper and rich- 
er ; and by October, when the beech leaf yellows, and the oak leaf reddens, the dim 
purples and deep greens of the heather are perfect. Of all seasons in Lome the late 
autumn is perhaps fhe most beautiful. The sea has a deeper hue, the sky a mellower 
light. There are long days of northerly wind, when every crag looks perfect, wrought in gray 



© 



1>0£MS OF f>LACSS. 493 

and gold, and silvered with moss, when the high clouds turn luminous at the edges, when a 
thin film of hoar-frost gleams over the grass and heather, when the light burns rosy and faint 
over all the hills, from Morven to Cruachan, for hours before the sun goes down. Out of the 
ditch at the woodside flaps the mallard, as you pass in the gloaming, and standingby the side 
of the small mountain loch, you see the flock of teal rise, wheel thrice, and settle. The hills 
are desolate, for the sheep are being sheared. There is a feeling of frost in the air, and Ben 
Cruachan has a crown of snow. 

When dead of winter comes, how wondrous look the hills in their white robes ! The round 
red ball of the sun looks through the frosty steam. The far-off firth gleams strange and 
ghostly, with a sense of mysterious distance. The mountain loch is a sheet of blue, on which 
you may disport in perfect solitude from morn to night, with the hills white on all sides, save 
where the broken snow shows the rusted leaves of the withered bracken. A deathly stillness and 
a deathlike beauty reign everywhere, and few living things are discernible, save the hare 
plunging heavily out of her form in the snow, or the rabbit scuttling off in a snowy spray, or 
the small birds piping disconsolate on the trees and dykes. 

Egbert Buchanan. 



A SWEDISH COUJVTRY CHURCH. 

{From the Introduction to "The Children of The Lord's Supper.") 

(^J^^EEQUENT, too, are the village churches, standingby the roadsides, each in its own lit- 
^%\ ^^^ garden of Gethsemane. In the parish register great events are doubtless recorded. 
X Some old king was christened or buried in that church ; and a little sexton, with a 
rusty key, shows you the baptismal font, or the coffin. In the churchyard are a few 
flowers, and much green grass; and daily the shadow of the church spire, with its long taper- 
ing finger, counts the tombs, representing a dial-plate of human life, on which the hours and 
minutes are the graves of men. The stones are flat, and large, and low, and perhaps sunken, 
like the roofs of old houses. On some are armorial bearings ; on others, only the initials of 
the poor tenants, with a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep with their heads 
to the westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died, and in his coflSn were 
placed his little heart-treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that came 
lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle they 
ever slept in ; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the little garments of the child 
that lived and died in her bosom. And over this scene the village pastor looks from his win- 
dow in the stillness of midnight, and says in his heart : " How quietly they rest, all the de- 
parted !" 

Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured 
by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the peas- 
ants sit on the church steps and con their psalm books. Others are coming down the road with 
their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. 
He speaks of fields and harvests, and of the parable of the sower that went forth to sow. He 
leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of the spirit-land. He is their 
patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has nO other throne than the 
church pulpit. The women carry psalm books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, 
and listen devoutly to the good man's words ; but the young men, like Gallio, care for none 
of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their 
number being an indication of the wearer's wealth. It may end in a wedding. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



494 



POEMS OF PLACES. 







I see the rabbit upward bound, 
With pointed ears an instant look." 



A FOREST WALK. 



LOVELY sky, a cloudless sun, 
A w ind that breathes of leaves and fl o vvers, 
O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won 

To the cool forest's shadowy bowers ; 
One of the paths all round that wind. 

Traced by the browsing herds, I choose, 
And sights and sounds of human kind 
In nature's lone recesses lose : 



The beech displays its marbled bark, 

The spruce its green tent stretches wide. 
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark. 

The maple's scalloped dome beside ; 
All weave on high a verdant roof, 
That keeps the very sun aloof. 
Making a twilight soft and green 
Within the columned, vaulted scene. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



495 



Sweet forest-odors have their birth 

From the clothed boughs and teeming earth, 

Where pine-cones dropped, leaves piled and 
dead, 
Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern, 
With many a wild flower's fairy urn, 

A thick, elastic carpet spread ; 
Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk, 
Resolving into soil, is sunk ; 
There, wrenched but lately from its throne 

By some tierce whirlwind circling past, 
Its huge roots massed with earth and stone, 
One of the woodland kings is cast. 

Above, the forest tops are bright 
With the broad blaze of sunny light ; 
But now a fitful air-gust parts 

The screening branches, and a glow 
Of dazzling, startling radiance darts 

Down the dark stems and breaks below ; 
The mingled shadows off are rolled. 
The sylvan floor is bathed in gold ; 
Low sprouts and herbs' before unseen, 
Display their shades of brown and green ; 
Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss. 
Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss ; 
The robin brooding in her nest, 
Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast; 
And, as my shadow prints the ground, 
I see the rabbit upward bound. 
With pointed ears an instant look. 
Then scamper to the darkest nook. 
Where, with crouched limb and staring eye, 
He watches while I saunter by. 

A narrow vista, carpeted 

With rich green grass, invites my tread ; 

Here showers the light in golden dots, 

There sleeps the shade in ebon spots, 

So blended that the very air 

Seems net-work as I enter there. 

The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum 

Afar has sounded on my ear. 
Ceasing his beatings as I come, 

Whirs to the sheltering branches near; 
The little milk-snake glides away. 
The brindled marmot dives from day ; 
And now, between the boughs, a space 
Of the blue, laughing sky I trace ; 
On each side shrinks the bowery shade ; 
Before me spreads an emerald glade ; 
The sunshine steeps its grass and moss, 
That couch my foot-steps as I cross ; 
Merrily hums the tawny bee ; 
The glittering humming-bird I see ; 



Floats the bright butterfly along ; 
The insect choir is loud in song ; 
A spot of light and life, it seems 
A fairy haunt for fancy's dreams. 

Here stretched, the pleasant turf I press. 
In luxury of idleness ; 
Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and sky 
Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye ; 
VYhile murmuring grass, and waving trees, 
Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze. 
And water-tones that twinkle near 
Blend their sweet music to my ear ; 
And by the changing shades alone 
The passage of the hours is known. 

Alfred B. Street. 



OLD EJYGLAJfD. 

T^ AND of the rare old chronicle, 

iM The legend and the lay. 

Where deeds of fancy's dream or truths 

Of all thine ancient day ; 
Land where the holly bough is green 

Around the Druid's pile. 
And greener yet the histories 

That wreathe his rugged isle ; 

Land of old story, like thine oak, 

The aged, but the strong, 
And wound with antique mistletoe. 

And ivy-wreaths of song. 
Old isle and glorious, I have heard 

Thy fame across the sea. 
And know my fathers' homes are thine ; 

My fathers rest with thee. 

And I have wooed thy poet-tide 

From fountain head along, 
From warbled gush to torrent roar. 

And cataract of song. 
And thou art no strange land to me, 

From Cumberland to Kent, 
With hills and vales of household name, 

And woods of wild event ! 

For tales of Guy and Robin Hood 
My childhood ne'er would tire. 

And Alfred's poet story roused 
My boyhood to the lyre. 



Fair isle ! thy Dove's wild dale along 

With Walton have I roved, 
And London, too, with all the heart 



496 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



Of burly Johnson, loved. 
Chameleon-like, my soul has ta'en 

Its every hue from thine, 
From Eastcheap'S epidemic laugh 

To Avon's gloom divine. 

All thanks to pencil and to page 

Of graver's mimic art, 
That England's panorama gave 

To picture up my heart ; 
That round my spirit's eye hath built 

Thine old cathedral piles. 
And flung the checkered window-light 

Adown their trophied aisles. 

I know thine abbey, Westminster, 

As sea-birds know their nest, 
And flies my home-sick soul to thee, 

When it would find a rest ; 
Where princes and old bishops sleep, 

With sceptre and with crook. 
And mighty spirits haunt around 

Each Gothic shrine and nook. 

I feel the sacramental hue 

Of choir and chapel there, 
And pictured panes that chasten down 

The day's unholy glare ; 
And dear it is, on cold gray stone, 

To see the sunbeams crawl, 
In long-drawn lines of colored light 

That streak the bannered wall. 



I've seen thy beacon banners blaze. 

Our mountain coast along, 
And swelled my soul with memories 

Of old romaunt and song ; 
Of Chevy-chase, of Agincourt, 

Of many a field that told 
Of Norman and Plantagenet, 

And all their fame of old : 



Thy holy Church, the Church of God, 

That hath grown old in thee. 
Since there the ocean-roving Dove 

Came bleeding from the sea ; 
When pierced afar, her weary feet 

Could find no home but thine. 
Until thine altars were her nest, 

Thy fanes her glory's shrine. 

Arthur Olevei^np Cqxe. 



J^UTTIJfG. 

T seems a day, 

(I speak of one from many singled out) 
One of those heavenly days which cannot die; 
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps 
Toward the distant woods, a figure quaint. 
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off" 

weeds 
Which for that service had been husbanded, 
By exhortation of my frugal dame ; 
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, 

in truth, 




I 



"Among the woods, 
And o'er the pathless rocks I forced my way." 

More ragged than need was. Among the 

woods. 
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way 
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious 

sign 
Of devastation, but the hazels rose 
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



497 



A virgin scene ! A little while I stood, 
Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint 
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
The banquet ; or beneath the trees I sate 
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I 

played, 
A tempter known to those, who, after long 
And weary expectation, have been blest 
With sudden happiness beyond all hope ; 
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
The violets of five seasons re-appear 
And fade, unseen by any human eye : 
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
Forever ; and I saw the sparkling foam, 
And with my cheek on one of those green 

stones 
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady 

trees. 
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, 
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound. 
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to 

pay 

Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure. 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things. 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. 
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, 

with crash 
And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower. 
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
Their quiet being, and, unless I now 
Confound my present feelings with the past, 
Even then, when from the bower I turned 

away 
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
The silent trees and the intruding sky. 
Then, dearest Maiden! move along these 

shades 
In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
Touch, for there is a spirit in the woods. 

WnxiAM Wordsworth. 



A FOREST HYMJf. 

fHE groves were God's first temples. Ere 
man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. 
And spread the roof above them, ere he 

framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
■Jhe sound of anthems^ in the darkling wood, 



Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down. 
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplications. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences 
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
And from the gray old trunks that high in 

heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the 

sound 
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
All their green tops, stole over him, and bow- 
ed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless power 
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
G-od's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
Only among the crowd and under roofs 
That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at 

least, 
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. 
Offer one hymn, thrice happy, if it find 
Acceptance in his ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst 

look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy 

breeze 
And shot towards heaven. The century-liv- 
ing crow. 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and 

died 
Among their branches, till at last they stood. 
As now they stand, massy, and tall and dark. 
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim 

vaults. 
These winding aisles, of human pomp orpride 
Heport not. No fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art here ; thou 

'fiU'st 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summit of these trees 
In music ; thou art in the cooler breath 
That from the inmost darkness of the place 
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the 

ground. 
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with 

thee. 
Here is continual worship ; nature here. 
In the tranquility that thou dost love. 
Enjoys thy presence, Noiselessly around, 




" Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
pidst weave this verdant roof." 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



499 



From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes ; and yon clear spring, that midst its 

herbs 
Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the 

roots 
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
Thyself without a witness, in these shades 
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and 

grace 
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, 
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 
Almost annihilated — not a prince. 
In all that proud old world beyond the deep. 
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower 
With scented breath, and look so like a smile. 
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 
An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
A visible token of the upholding Love, 
That are the soul of this wide universe. 



My heart is awed within me when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on. 
In silence, round me ; the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die, but see again 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses, ever gay and beautiful youth. 
In all its beautiful forms, These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost 
One of earth's charms upon her bosom yet ; 
After the flight of untold centuries. 
The freshness of her far beginning lies 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 



Of his arch enemy. Death ; yea, seats himself 
Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulcher, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came 

forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have an end. 

There have been holy men who hid them- 
selves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they 

outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them; — and there have been holy 

men 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies. 
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when 

thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on 

fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill 
With all the waters of the firmament. 
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the 

woods 
And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities— who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? 
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
Who rulest them. Be it ours to meditate. 
And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 

William Cullen Bryai^t. 



THE ALHAMBBA BY MOOJfLIGHT, 

(From "The Alhambra.") 

HAVE given a picture of my apartment on my first taking possession of it; a few 
evenings have produced a thorough change in the scene and in my feelings. The moon, 
which was then invisible, has gradually gained upon the nights, and now rolls in full 
splendor above the towers, pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. 
The garden beneath my window is gently lighted up ; the orange and citron trees are tipped 
with silver; the fountain sparkles in the moonbeams, and even the blush of the rose is faint- 
ly visible. 
31 



500 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



I have sat for hours at my window inhaling the sweetness of the garden, and musing on the 
chequered features of those whose history is dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials 
around. Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight when everything was quiet, and have 
wandered over the whole building. Who can do justice to amoonliglit night in such a climate, 
and in such a place I The temperature of an Andalusian midnight in summer is perfectly ethe- 
real. We seem lifted up into a purer atmosphere; there is a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of 
spirits, an elasticity of frame that render mere existence enjoyment. The effect of moonlight, 
too, on the Alhambrahas something like enchantment. Every rent and chasm of time, every 
mouldering tint and weather stain disappears; the marble resumes its original whiteness ; the 
long colonnades brighten in the moonbeams; the halls are illumined with a softened radi- 
ance, until the whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale. 

At such time I have ascended to the little pavillion called the Queen's Toilette, to enjoy 
its varied and extensive prospect. To the right, the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada 




The Alhambra. 

would gleam like silver clouds against the darker firmament, and all the outlines of the moun- 
tain would be softened, yet delicately defined. My delight, however, would be to lean over 
the parapet of the tocador, and gaze down upon Granada, spread out like a map before me, 
all buried in deep repose, and its white palaces and convents sleeping as it were in the moon- 
shine. 

Sometimes I would hear the faint sounds of castanets from some party of dancers linger- 
ing in the Alameda ; at other times I have heard the dubious tones of a guitar, and the notes 
of a single voice rising from some solitary street, and have pictured to myself some youthful 
cavalier serenading his lady's window ; a gallant custom of former days, but now sadly on 
the decline except in the remote towns and villages of Spain. 

Such are the scenes that liave detained me for many an hour loitering about the courts 

pa i}v|lconi^§ 9f tU^ c;istie, cnjovin^ tho raU^t^r^ of reverie? mA nm^siitm wbicjj §tQ»l awa^ 



i 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



501 



existence in a southern climate, and it has been almost morning before I have retired to my 
bed, and been lulled to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa. 

Washington Irving. 
o 

ODE OK A DISTAJfT PROSPECT OF ETOjY COLLEGE. 



TE distant spires ! ye antique towers ! 
That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 

Of grove, of mead, of lawn, survey ; 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers 

among. 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 
His silver winding way : 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow. 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing. 
My weary soul they seem to soothe. 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames — for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race. 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace — 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm thy glassy wave? 

The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying ball? 

While some, on earnest business bent. 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty ; 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry ; 
Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, 
Less pleasing when possessed ; 

The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
TJae gimshin^ of the/ breast ; 



Theirs buxom Health of rosy hue, 
Wild Wit, Invention ever new. 

And lively Cheer, of Vigor born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light 

That fly the approach of morn. 

Alas! regardless of their doom. 

The little victims play ! 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day ; 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate, 

And black Misfortune's baleful train : 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the murderous band ! 

Ah, tell them they are men ! 

These shall the fury passions tear. 

The vultures of the mind. 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame, that skulks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth. 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high. 
To bitter scorn a sacrifice. 

And grinning Infamy ; 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try. 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
And keen Remorse, by blood defiled. 
And moody Madness, laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath, 

A grisly troop are seen, 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen ; 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins. 
That every laboring sinew strains. 

Those in the deeper vitals rage ; 
Lo! Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And sl9W-consuming age, 



502 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



To each his sufferings ; all are men, 

Condemned alike to groan : 
The tender for another's pain, 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 



And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their paradise ; 
No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise ! 

Thomas Gray. 




Eton College, from the River. 



1 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



603 



SOJfJfET. 

(Composed upon Westminster Bridge.) 

Tl^ARTH has not anything to show more 
Mr fair ; 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass 

by 

A sight so touching in its majesty ; 
This city now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 

Ships, towers, domes, theaters and tem- 
ples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky. 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep. 

In his first splendor, valley, rock, and 
hill; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ; 

The river glideth at his own sweet will. 
Dear God ! The very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 

William Wordswokth. 



THE THAMES. 

(From "Cooper's Hill.") 

.«)X Y eye, descending from the hill, surveys 
@i Where Thames among the wanton val- 
leys strays ; 
Thames, the most loved of all the ocean's 

sons 
By his old sire, to his embraces runs. 
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea. 
Like mortal life to meet eternity. 
Though with those streams he no remem- 
brance hold, 
Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold. 
His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore, 
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore. 
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious 

wing. 
And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring. 
And then destroys it with too fond a stay. 
Like mothers which their infants overlay; 
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, 
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he 

gave. 
No unexpected inundations spoil 
The mower's hopes, nor mock the plowman's 

toil. 
But God-like his unwearied bounty flows; 
First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, 
But free and common, as the sea or wind. 



When he to boast or to disperse his stores. 
Full of the tribute of his grateful shores, 
Visits the world, and in his flying tours 
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; 
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it 

wants. 
Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants ; 
So that to us no thing, no place is strange, 
While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. 
Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy 

stream 
My great example, as it is my theme ! 
Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet 

not dull ; 
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing, full, 

But his proud head the airy mountain hides 
Among the clouds; his shoulders and his sides 
A shady mantle clothes ; his curled brows 
Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly 

flows. 
While winds and storms his lofty forehead 

beat, 
The common fate of all that's high or great. 

Sir John Dexham. 



LIjYES. 

(Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, on Re- 
visiting the Banks of the Wye.) 

flYE years have past; five summers, with 
the length 
Of five long winters : and again I hear 
These waters rolling from their mountain 

springs 
With a sweet inland murmur. Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and con- 
nect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- 
tufts. 
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose them- 
selves 
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little 

lines 
Of sportive woods run wild; these pastoral 
farms. 



504 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



Green to the very door; and wreaths of 

smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his lire, 
The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye ; 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart. 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration ; feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift, 
Of aspect more sublime : that blessed mood, 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world. 
Is lightened ; that serene and blessed mood. 
In which the affections gently lead us on, 
Until the breath of this corporeal frame, 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul; 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet oh, how oft, 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the Avorld, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, 
How oft in spirit have I turned to thee ! 
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the 

woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished 

thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 
The picture of the mind revives again, 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of pleasant pleasure, but with pleasing 

thoughts 



That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was 

when fiirst 
I came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the side 
Of the deep rivers and the lonely streams, 
Wherever Nature led ; more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than 

one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature 

then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 
And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
To me was all in all. I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 

wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite, a feeling, and a love. 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, or any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, 
Abundant recompense-. For I have learned 
To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity. 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused. 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean and the living air. 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I 

still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods 
And mountains, and of all that we behold 
From this green earth; of all the mighty 

world 
Of eye and ear, both what they half create. 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In Nature and the language of the sense. 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, the soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor, perchance, 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



505 



If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay ;' 
For thou art with me, here upon the hanks 
Of this fair river; thou my dearest friend, 
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I 

catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh, yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 
My dear, dear sister ! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life to lead 
From joy to joy; for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 

men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk, 
And let the misty mountain winds be free 
To blow against thee ; and, in after years. 
When these wild ecstacies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. 
Thy memory shall be as a dwelling place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh, then. 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what healing 

thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
And these my exhortations! Nor perchance, 
If I should be where I no more can hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 

gleams 
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together ; and that I, so long 
A worshiper of Nature, hither came. 
Unwearied in that service — rather say 
With warmer love ; oh, with far deeper zeal 
Of holier love ! Nor wilt thou then forget. 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
And this green pastoral landscape were to 

me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy 

sake. 

William Wordsworth. 



TEE BURJflJ^a OF CHICAGO. 

**1 FOUND a Rome of common clay," im- 
C perial Caesar cried ; 

" I left a Rome of marble!" No other Rome 
beside ! 

The ages wrote their autographs along the 
sculptured stone — 

The golden eagles flew abroad — Augustan 
splendors shone — 

They made a Roman of the world! They trail- 
ed the classic robe. 

And flung the Latin toga around the naked 
globe ! 

" I found Chicago wood and clay," a mightier 
Kaiser said. 

Then flung upon the sleeping mart his royal 
robes of red. 

And temple, dome, and colonnade, and monu- 
ment and spire 

Put on the crimson livery of dreadful Kais- 
er Fire! 

The stately piles of polished stone were shat- 
tered into sand, 

And madly drove the dread simoon, and snow- 
ed them on the land ; ^ 

And rained them till the sea was red, and 
scorched the wings of prayer ! 

Like thistle-down ten thousand homes went 
drifting through the air. 

And dumb Dismay walked hand in hand with 
frozen-eyed Despair ! 

Chicago vanished in a cloud — the towers were 
storms of sleet, 

Lo ! ruins of a thousand years along the spec- 
tral street I 

The night burned out between the days! The 
ashen hoar-frost fell, 

As if some demon set ajar the bolted gates of 
hell. 

And let the molten billows break the adaman- 
tine bars, 

And roll the smoke of torment up to smother 
out the stars ! 

The low, dull growl of powder-blasts just dot- 
ted off the din, 

As if they tolled for perished clocks the time 
that might have been ! 

The thunder of the flery surf roared human 
accents dumb ; 

The trumpet's clangor died away a wild bee's 
drowsy hum, 



POEMS OF PLACES. 




'Chicago vanished in a cloud— the towers were storms of sleet, 
Lo ! ruins of a thousand years along the spectral street. 



And breakers beat the empty world that rum- 
bled like a drum. 

O cities of the Silent Land! O Graceland and 
Rosehill! 

Xo tombs without their tenantry? The pale 
host sleeping still ? 

Your marble thresholds dawning red with 
holocaust al glare, 

As if the Waking Angel's foot were set upon 
the stair ! 



But ah, the human multitudes that marched 

before the flame — 
As 'mid the Red Sea's wavy walls the ancient 

people came ! 
Behind, the rattling chariots! the Pharaoh of 

Fire! 



The rallying volley of the whips, the jarring 
of the tire !— 

Looked round, and saw the homeless world as 

dismal as a pyre- 
Looked up, and saw God's blessed Blue a fir- 
mament so dire! 

As in the days of burning Troy, when Virgil's 
hero fled, 

So gray and trembling pilgrims found some 
younger feet instead. 

That bore them through the wilderness with 
bold elastic stride, 

And Ptuth and Rachel, pale and brave, in si- 
lence walked beside ; 

Those Bible girls of Judah's day did make 
that day sublime — 

Leave life but them, no other loss can ever 
bankrupt Time I 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



507 



Men stood and saw their all caught up in char- 
iots of flame — 

No mantle falling from the sky they ever 
thought to claim, 

And empty-handed as the dead, they turned 
away and smiled, 

And bore a stranger's household gods and 
saved a stranger's child! 

What valor brightened into shape, like stat- 
ues in a hall, 

When on their dusky panoply the blazing 
torches fall. 

Stood bravely out, and saw the world spread 
wings of fiery flight, 

And not a trinket of a star to crown disaster- 
ed night ! 

Bexjamix F. Taylok. 



TRE TRAVELER. 

(Extracts.) 

M) EMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
^^\^ Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po, 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts his door. 
Or vrhere Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
My heart, untraveled, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain. 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests re- 
tire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty 

crowned. 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale. 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food. 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 
But mc, not destined such delights to share. 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care. 
Impelled with steps unceasing to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the 

view, 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies. 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 



And finds no spot of all the world my own> 

^«- * * * * 

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends. 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountains' side, 
Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride, 
While oft some temple's mouldering top be- 
tween 
With memorable grandeur marks the scene. 
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest : 
Whatever fruits in difterent climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied 

year; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 
But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows; 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear ; 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles 

here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners 

reign ; 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, 

vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, though 

untrue, 
And even in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the 

date. 
When commerce proudly flourished through 

the stat«. 
At her command the palace learned to rise. 
Again the long-fallen column sought the skies. 
The canvass glowed, beyond e'en Nature warm. 
The pregnant quarry teemed with human 

form ; 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; 
While naught remained of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmanned, and lords without a 

slave. 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill. 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 



508 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



From these the feeble heart and long-fallen 

mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; 
Processions formed for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled: 
The sports of children satisfy the child. 
Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul, 
While low delights, succeeding fast behind. 
In happier meanness occupy the mind. 
As in those domes, where Caesars once bore 

sway. 
Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed, 
And, wondering man could want the larger 

pile. 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
My soul, turn from them, turn w^e to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display ; 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions 

tread 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. 
No product here the barren hills afibrd 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a 

charm, 
Redress tlie clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts but 

small. 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head. 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal. 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep. 
Or drives the venturous plowshare to the 

steep ; 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark 

the way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labor sped, 
He sits him down, the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 



His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze, 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
And haply, too, some pilgrim, hither led. 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
Thus every good his native wilds impart 
Imprint the patriot passion on his heart, 
And even those hills, that round his mansion 

rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms 
And dear the hill which lifts him to the storms; 
And as a child when scaring sounds molest. 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 
Oliver Goldsmith. 



SOJ^J^ET, 

fHE world is too much with us ; late and 
soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers ; 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid booni 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 
The winds that will be howling at all 

hours. 
And are upgathered now like sleeping 
flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be 

A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less 
forlorn ! 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed 
horn ! 

William Wordsworth. 



A CHAMBER SCE.YE. 

fREAD softly through these amorous 
rooms. 
For every bough is hung with life. 
And kisses, in harmonious strife, 
Unloose their sharp and winged perfumes: 
From Afric, and the Persian looms, 
The carpet's silken leaves have sprung. 
And heaven, in its blue bounty, flung 
These starry flowers, and azure blooms. 

Tread softly! by a creature fair 
The deity of love reposes, 




POEMS OF PLACES, 



509 



His red lips open, like the roses 
"Which round his hyacinthine hair 

Hang in crimson coronals ; 

And Passion fills the arched halls, 
And Beauty floats upon the air. 

Tread softly, softly, like the foot 
Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow, 



Who Cometh white, and cold, and mute. 
Lest he should wake the Spring below. 

Oh look I for here lie Love and Youth, 
Fair spirits of the heart and mind I 

Alas ! that one should stray from truth, 
And one be ever, ever blind! 

Bryan W. Procter. 

(Barry Coruwall.) 



/^^-^^^^ /su>cA^>c Tltt^^et A^r^/ ^ ^ , 




R UIJ^S OJ\r THE RHIJSTE. 

(From "The Mill on the Floss.") 

*jr OURNEYING down the Phone on a summer's day, you have perhaps felt the sunshine 
•#• made dreary by those ruined villages which stud the banks in certain parts of its course, 
^ J telling how the swift river once rose, like an angry, destroying god, sweeping down the 
^^ feeble generations whose breath is in their nostrils, and making their dwellings a desola- 
tion. Strange contrast, you may have thought, between the effect produced on us by these 
dismal remnants of common-place houses, which in their best days were but the sign of a sor- 



610 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



did life, belonging in all its details to our own vulgar era; and the effect produced by these 
ruins on the castled Ehine, which have crumbled and mellowed into such harmony with the 
green and rocky steeps, that they seem to have a natural fitness, like the mountain pine; nay, 
even in the day when they were built they must have had this fitness, as if they had been 
raised by an earth-born race, who had inherited from their mighty parent a sublime instinct 
of form. And that was a day of romance! If those robber-barons were somewhat grim and 
drunken ogres, they had a certain grandeur of the wild beast in them, they were forest boars 
with tusks, tearing and rending, not the ordinary grunter ; they represented the demon forces 
forever in collision with beauty, virtue, and the gentle uses of life ; they made a fine con- 
trast in the picture with the wandering minstrel, the soft-lipped princess, the pious recluse, 
and the timid Israelite. That was a time of color, when the sunlight fell on glancing steel 
and floating banners ; a time of adventure and fierce struggle, nay, of living, religious art 
and religious enthusiasm; for were not cathedrals built in those days, and did not great em- 
perors leave their Western palaces to die before the infidel strongholds in the sacred East ? 
Therefore it is that these Rhine castles thrill me with a sense of poetry : they belong to the 
grand historic life of humanity, and raise up for me the vision of an epoch. But these dead- 
tinted, hollow-eyed, angular skeletons of villages on the Rhone oppress me with the feeling 
that human life, very much of it, is a narrow, ugly, grovelling existence, which even calamity 
does not elevate, but rather tends to exhibit in all its bare vulgarity of conception ; and I 
have a cruel conviction that the lives of these ruins are the traces of, were part of a gross 
sum of obscure vitality, that will be swept into the same oblivion with the generations of ants 
and beavers. Marian Evans Cross. 

("George Eliot,'") 
O 



AT SORREXTO. 

fLEAR quiet waters, like the pale green 
sky 
That in smooth sunsets spans from gold to 
gold; 
And when the windy ripple flickers by 
It breaks and plashes on the thwarting 
beach ; 
But there the sunken stones in stillness lie. 
The seaweeds stir not that the crannies 

hold: 
Calm is below the deepness out of reach. 



Yet there was once the servant's busy tread; 
Or, languidly, trailed robes would sweep the 
hall; 
There silken rest was sweet with noon o'er- 
head; 
There, on the terraced court — the rose 
ablow — 
With gossip friends from Rome the cup was 
shed, 
And girls went whispering in the evening 

fall, 
And children at their play passed to and fro. 



A reef beneath the sea where the boats ride 

And fishers cast their nets ; and well I wot 
The goodly home was boasted far and wide. 

A reef beneath the sea; this much remains. 
But they that were its life, 'neath Time's 
smooth tide, 
Are hidden out of very thought, forgot — 
Lost in the fathomless dark of ocean plains. 
Augusta Webster. 



TRE FOR SAKE Jf FARM-HOUSE. 

t GAINST ih^ wooded hills it stands. 
Ghost of a dead home, staring through 
Its broken lights on wasted lands 
Where old-time harvests grew. 

Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn. 
The poor forsaken farm-fields lie. 

Once rich and rife with golden corn 
And pale green breadths of rye. 

Of healthful herb and flower bereft. 
The garden plot no house-wife keeps ; 

Through weeds and tangle only left, 
The snake, its tenant, creeps. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



511 



A lilac spray, once blossom clad, 

Sways bare before the empty rooms; 

Beside the roofless porch a sad, 
Pathetic red rose blooms. 

His track, in mould and dust of drouth. 
On floor and hearth the squirrel leaves, 

And in the fireless chimney's mouth 
His web the spider weaves. 

The leaning barn about to fall 
Resounds no more on husking eaves ; 

ISTo cattle low in yard or stall, 
No thresher beats his sheaves. 



solitude:. 

(From "Cliilde Harold," Canto IV.) 

[]^0 sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and 

F fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. 
Where things that own not man's dominion 

dwell. 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen. 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming fall to lean; 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her 

stores unroll'd. 



So sad, so drear! It seems almost 

Some haunting presence makes its sign; 

That down yon shadowy lane some ghost 
Might drive his spectral kine ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



THE ALPS. 

(From " Childe Harold," Canto III.) 

UT these recede. Above me are the 

Alps, 

The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps. 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits as to show^ 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave 

vain man below. 



Lake TiCman woos me with its crystal face. 
The mirror where the stars and mountains 

view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace, 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and 

hue : 
There is too much of man here to look 

through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than 

of old. 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in 

their fold. 

George Gordox, Lord Byron. 



But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of 
men. 

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess. 

And roam along, the world's tired denizen. 

With none who bless us, none whom we can 
bless ; 

Minions of splendour shrinking from dis- 
tress ! 

None that, with kindred consciousness en- 
dued, 

If we were not, would seem to smile the 
less. 

Of all that flatter'd, foUow'd, sought, and 
sued; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 

Oh I that the Desert were my dwelling place. 
With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her I 
Ye Elements! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be 
our lot. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes. 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con- 
ceal. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 




"I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A paluce ao<J a prisuo pn ^uch hftw4." 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



613 



VEJ^ICE. 

(From ''Childe Harold,-' Canto IV.) 

STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 

A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise, 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand ; 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O'er the far times, w^hen many asuhjectland 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her 
hundred isles ! 



She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was; — her daughters had their 

dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless 

East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling 

showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity 

increased. 



In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is 

here. 
States fall, arts fade— but Nature doth not 

die, 
Kor yet forget how Venice once Avas dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy I 



But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms des- 
pond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy w^hich will not decay 
With the Rial to ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, can not be swept or worn 

away — 
The keystones of the arch! though all were 
o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 



FROM THE CASTLE OF IJYDO- 
LEjYCE. 

EXTERIOR OF THE CASTLE. 

N" lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 
: With woody hill o'er hill encompassed 

round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide, 
Than whom a iiend more fell is nowhere 
found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
And there a season atween June and May, 
Half-pranked with spring, with summer 
half-embrowned, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
Ne living wight could work, ne cared even for 
play. 



Was naught around but images of rest; 
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns be- 
tween. 
And flowery beds that slumberous influence 
kest 
From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleas- 
ant green, 
Where never yet was creeping creature 
seen. 
Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets 
played 
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen. 
That, as they bickered through the sunny 

glade. 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling mur- 
mur made. 

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills 

Were heard the lowing herds along the vale. 
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills. 

And vacant shepherds piping in the dale ; 

And now and then, sweet Philomel, 
Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep. 

That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale, above, 

A sable, silent, solemn forest stood. 
Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to 
move. 

As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood ; 

And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro, 

Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; 
And where this valley winded out, below. 
The murmuring main was heard, an(l scarce^ 
\j h^jird, to flow, 



514 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut 
eye, 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round the summer sky ; 
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instill a wanton sweetness through the breast ; 
And the calm pleasures always hovered 
nigh; 
But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest. 
Was far, far oif dispelled from this delicious 
nest. 

INTERIOR OF THE CASTLE. 

The doors, that knew no shrill, alarming bell, 
Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, 

Self-opened into halls, where who can tell 
What elegance and grandeur far expand. 
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? 

Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread. 
And couches stretched around in seemly 
band; 

And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; 

So that each spacious room was one full-swell- 
ing bed. 



Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale ; 
Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale. 
Poured forth at large the sweetly tortured 
heard ; 
Or, sighing tender passion, swelled the gale, 
And taught charmed echo to resound their 

smart ; 
While flocks, woods, streams around, repose 
and peace impart. 

Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning 
hand, 
Depainted was the patriarchal age ; 

What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee 
land. 

And pastured on from verdant stage to stage. 
Where fields and fountains fresh could best 
engage. 

Toil was not then; of nothing took they heed. 
But with wild beasts the sylvan war to 
wage. 

And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to 
feed; 

Blest sons of nature they! true golden age in- 
deed ! 



And everywhere huge covered tables stood. 
With wines high-flavored and rich viands 
crowned ; 

Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food 
On the green bosom of this earth are found. 
And all old ocean 'genders in his round. 

Some hand unseen these silently displayed. 
Even undemanded by a sign or sound ; 

You need but wish, and instantly obeyed. 

Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the 
glasses played. 

Here freedom reigned, without the least alloy; 
Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's 
gall, 
Nor saintly spleen, durst murmur at our joy. 
And with envenomed tongue our pleasures 

pall. 
For why ? There was one great rule for all : 
To wit, that each might work his own desire. 
And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall. 
Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre. 
And carol what, unbid, the muses might in- 
spire. 

The rooms with costly tapestry were hung. 

Where was inwoven many a gentle tale, 
Such as of old the rural poets sung, 



Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls. 
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes 
rise; 
Or autumn's varied shades embrow^n the 
walls ; 
Now the black tempest strikes the astonish- 
ed eyes ; 
Now down the steep the flashing torrent 
flies ; 
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue. 
And now rude mountains frown amid the 
skies ; 
Whate'er Lorraine light-touched with soften- 
ing hue. 
Or savage Rosa dashed, or learned Poussin 
drew. 

Each sound, too, here to languishment inclined. 
Lulled the weak bosom, and induced ease ; 

Aerial music in the warbling wind. 
At distance rising oft, by small degrees, 
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees 

It hung and breathed such soul-dissolving airs. 
As did, alas ; with soft perdition please ; 

Entangled deep in its enchanting snares, 

The listening heart forgot all duties and 
cares. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



515 



THE GUESTS. 

(The portraits given are those of Quin, the actor, Thom- 
son himself, and his friend Dr. Murdoch. The stanza des- 
cribing Thomson was contributed by Lord Lyttleton.) 

Here whilom ligged the Esopus of the age ; 
But called by fame, in soul ypricked deep, 
A noble pride restored him to the stage, 
And roused him like a giant from his sleep. 
Even from his slumbers we advantage reap; 
With double force the enlivened scene he 
wakes, 
Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows 
to keep 
Each due decorum ; now the heart he shakes. 
And now with well urged sense the enlighten- 
ed judgment shakes. 

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard be- 
seems. 

Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain. 
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes, 

Poured forth his unpremeditated strain ; 

The world forsaking with a calm disdain. 
Here laughed he careless in his easy seat; 

Here quaffed, encircled with the joyous 
train. 
Oft moralizing sage ; his ditty sweet 
He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. 

Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod. 

Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy. 
A little, round, fat, oily man of God 

Was one I chiefly marked amid the fry! 

He had a roguish twinkle in his eye. 
And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, 

If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by; 
Which, when observed, he shrunk into his 

mew. 
And straight would recollect his piety anew. 
Jajmes Thomson. 



OJ^ A LIBRARY. 

§PEAK low, tread softly through 
these halls ; 

Here Genius lives enshrined ; 
Here live, in silent majesty. 

The monarchs of the mind ! 
A mighty spirit-host, they come 

From every age and clime ; 
Above the buried wrecks of years. 

They breast the tide of Time, 
And in their presence-chamber here. 

They hold their regal state. 
And round them throng a noble train, 

The gifted and the great. 

32 



O child of earth! when round thy path 

The storms of life arise. 
And when thy brothers pass thee by 

With stern, unloving eyes. 
Here shall the poets chant for thee 

Their sweetest, holiest lays. 
And prophets wait to guide thy steps 

In wisdom's pleasant ways. 
Come, with these God-anointed kings 

Be thou companion here, 
And in the mighty realm of mind 

Thou Shalt go forth a peer. 

Anne C. (Lynch) Botta. 



MODERjY GREECE. 

(From "Childe Harold," Canto II.) 

IT are thy skies as blue, thy crags as 

wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy 

fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled. 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress 

builds. 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; 
Art, glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is 

fair. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy 

ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads 

around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt 

upon: 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and 

wold 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples 

gone: 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey 

Marathon. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the 

same; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless 

fame; 
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' 

sword, 



516 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word; 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's 
career. 

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 

The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 

Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain be- 
low ; 

Death in the front, Destruction in the rear ! 

Such was the scene — what now remaineth 
here? 

What sacred trophy marks the hallow 'd 
ground, 

Recording freedom's smile and Asia's tear ; 

The rifled urn, the violated mound, 



The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! 
spurns around. 



Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, 

throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian 

blast. 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a 

shore ; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore. 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 



llJ 



ITALY. 

(From "Pictures from Italy.") 

HAT light is shed upon the world at this day, from amidst these rugged palaces of 
Florence ! Here, open to all comers, in their beautiful and calm retreats, the ancient 
sculptors are immortal, side by side with Michael Angelo, Canova, Titian, Rem- 
brandt, Raphael, poets, historians, philosophers — those illustrious men of history, be- 
side whom its crowned head and harnessed warriors show so poor and small, and are so soon 
forgotten. Here, the imperishable part of noble minds survives, placid and equal, when 
strongholds of assault and defence are overthrown ; when the tyranny of the many, or the 
few, or both, is but a tale; when pride and power are so much cloistered dust. The fire 
within the stern streets, and among the massive palaces and towers, kindled by rays from 
heaven, is still burning brightly, when the flickering of war is extinguished, and the house- 
hold fires of generations have decayed : as thousands upon thousands of faces, rigid with the 
strife and passion of the hour, have faded out of the old squares and public haunts, while the 
nameless Florentine lady, preserved Itom oblivion by a painter's hand, yet lives on in enduring 
grace and truth. 

Let us look back on Florence while we may, and when its shining dome is seen no more, go 
travelling through cheerful Tuscany, with a bright remembrance of it; for Italy will be the 
fairer for the recollection. The summer time being come; and Genoa, and Milan, and the 
Lake of Como lying far behind us; and we resting at Faido, a Swiss village, near the awful 
rocks and mountains, the everlasting snows and roaring cataracts, of the Great St. Gothard, 
hearing the Italian tongue for the last time on this journey; let us part from Italy, with all its 
miseries and wrongs, affectionately, in our admiration of the beauties, natural and artificial, 
of which it is full to overflowing, and in our tenderness towards a people naturally well dis- 
posed, and patient, and sweet-tempered. Years of neglect, oppression, and misrule, have 
been at work, to change their nature and reduce their spirit ; miserable jealousies fomented 
by petty princes to whom union was destruction, and division strength, have been a canker at 
the root of their nationality, and have barbarized their language; but the good that was in 
them ever, is in them yet, and a noble people may be one day raised up from these ashes. Let 
us entertain that hope ! And let us not remember Italy the less regardfully, because in every 
fragment of ber fallen temples, and ever;^' stone of her deserted palaces and prisons, she helps 



POEMS OF PLACES. 517 

to inculcate the lesson that the wheel of Time is rolling for an end, and that the world if, in 
all great essentials, better, gentler, and more forbearing, more hopeful as it rolls ! 

Chakles Dickens. 


PHCEBE FYKCHEOJ^'S CHAMBER. 

(From "The House of the Seven Gables.") 

FHCEBE Pyncheon slept, on the night of her arrival, in a chamber that looked down on 
the garden of the old house. It fronted toward the east, so that at a very seasonable 
hour the glowing crimson light came flooding through the window and bathed the dingy 
ceiling and paper-hangings with its own hue. There were curtains to Phoebe's bed ; a 
dark antique canopy and ponderous festoons, of a stuft" that had been magnificent in its time, 
but which now brooded over the girl like a cloud, making a night in that one corner, while 
elsewhere it was beginning to be day. The morning light, however, soon stole into the aper- 
ture at the foot of the bed betwixt those faded curtains. Finding the new guest there with a 
bloom on the cheeks like the morning's own, and a gentle stir of departing slumber in her 
limbs, as when an early breeze moves the foliage, the dawn kissed her brow. It was the 
caress which a dewy maiden, such as the dawn is immortally, gives to her sleeping sister, 
partly from an impulse of irresistible fondness, and partly as a pretty hint that it is time now 
to unclose her eyes. 

At the touch of those lips of light Phoebe quietly awoke, and for a moment did not recog- 
nize where she was, nor how those heavy curtains chanced to be festooned around her. Noth- 
ing, indeed, was absolutely plain to her, except that it was now early morning, and, that, 
whatever might happen next, it was proper first of all to get up and say her prayers. She 
was the more inclined to devotion from the grim aspect of the chamber and its furniture, es- 
pecially the tall, stiff" chairs ; one of which stood close to her bedside, and looked as if some 
old-fashioned personage had been sitting there all night, and had vanished just in season to 
escape discovery. 

When Phoebe was quite dressed, she peeped out of the window, and saw a rose-bush in the 
garden. Being a very tall one, and of luxuriant growth, it had been propped up against the 
side of the house, and was literally covered with a rare and very beautiful species of white 
rose. A large portion of them, as the girl afterward discovered, had blight or mildew at 
their hearts ; but viewed at a fair distance, the whole rose-bush looked as if it had been 
brought from Eden that very summer, together with the mould in which it grew. The truth 
was, nevertheless, that it had been planted by Alice Pyncheon — she was Phoebe's great-great- 
grand-aunt — in soil which, reckoning only its cultivation as a garden-plat, was now unctuous 
with nearly two hundred years of vegetable decay. Growing as they did, however, out of 
the old earth, the flowers still sent a fresh and sweet incense up to their Creator ; nor could 
it have been the less pure and acceptable because Phoebe's young breath mingled with it, as the 
fragrance floated past the window. Hastening down the creaking and carpetless staircase, 
she found her way into the garden, gathered some of the most perfect of the roses, and brought 
them to her chamber. 

Little Phoebe was one of those persons who possess, as their exclusive patrimony, the gift 
of practical arrangement. It is a kind of natural magic that enables those favored ones to 
bring out the hidden capabilities of things around them ; and particularly to give a look of 
comfort and habitableness to any place which, for however brief a period, may happen to be 
their home. A wild hut of underbrush, tossed together by wayfarers through the primitive 
forest, would acquire the home aspect by one night's lodging of such a woman, and would re- 
tain it long after her quiet figure had disappeared into the surrounding shade. No less apor- 



518 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



tion of such homely witchcraft was requisite to reclaim, as it were, Phoebe's waste, cheerless, 
dusky chamber, which had been untenanted so long except by spiders, and mice, and rats, 
and ghosts, that it was all overgrown with the desolation which watches to obliterate every 
trace of men's happier homes. What was precisely Phoebe's process we find it impossible to 
say. She appeared to have no preliminary design, but gave a touch here and another there ; 
brought some articles to light and dragged others into the shadow ; looped up or let down a 
window curtain ; and in the course of half an hour had fully succeeded in throwing a kindly 
and hospitable smile over the apartment. 




v/^^^5^*^ ^^-^t?^^^^^. 



There was still another peculiarity of this inscrutable charm. The bed-chamber, no doubt, 
was a chamber of very great and varied experience as a scene of human life. Here had come 
the bride-groom with his bride ; new immortals had here drawn their first breath ; and here 
the old had died. But whether it were the white roses, or whatever the subtle influence 
might be, a person of delicate instinct would have known at once that it was now a maiden's 
bed-chamber, and had been puriiied of all former evil and sorrow by her sweet breath and 
happy thoughts. J^ath^vniel Hawthorne, 




POEMS OF PLACES. 519 

THE HOLLOW DOWJV BY THE FLARE. 

(From " Our Mutual 'Friend.") 

ES. Then as I sit alooking at the fire, I seem to see in the burning coal — like where 
that glow is now — " 

^'That's gas, that is," said the boy, " coming out of a bit of a forest that's been 
under the mud that was under the water in the days of Noah's Ark. Look here! 
When I take the poker— so— and give it a dig — " 

" Don't disturb it, Charley, or it'll be all in a blaze. It's that dull glow near it, coming and 
going, that I mean. When I look at it of an evening, it comes like pictures to me, Charley." 

" Show us a picture," said the boy. " Tell us where to look." 

*' Ah! It wants my eyes, Charley." 

" Cut away, then, and tell us what your eyes make of it." 

*" Why, there are you and me, Charley, when you were quite a baby that never knew a moth- 
er—" 

" Don't go saying I never knew a mother," interposed the boy, " for I knew a little sister 
that was sister and mother both." 

The girl laughed delightedly, and her eyes filled with pleasant tears, as he put both his 
arms round her waist, and so held her. 

" There are you and me, Charley, when father was away at work, and locked us out, for fear 
we should set ourselves afire or fall out of the window, sitting on the door-sill, sitting on 
other door-steps, sitting on the bank of a river, wandering about to get through the time. 
You are rather heavy to carry, Charley, and I am often obliged to rest. Sometimes we are 
sleepy and fall asleep together in a corner, sometimes we are very hungry, sometimes w^e are 
a little frightened, but what is oftenest hard upon us is the cold. You remember, Charley ?" 

*' I remember," said the boy, pressing her to him twice or thrice, " that I snuggled under a 
little shawl, and it was warm there." 

" Sometimes it rains, and we creep under a boat, or the like of that ; sometimes it's dark, 
and we get among the gaslights, sitting watching the people as they go along the streets. At 
last, up comes father and takes us home. And home seems such a shelter after out of doors! 
And father pulls my shoes ofi", and dries mj feet at the fire, and has me to sit by him while he 
smokes his pipe long after you are abed, and I notice that father's is a large hand, but never a 
heavy one when it touches me, and that father's is a rough voice, but never an angry one 
when it speaks to me. So, 1 grow up, and little by little father trusts me and makes me his 
companion, and, let him be put out as he may, never once strikes me." 

The listening boy gave a grunt here, as much as to say, "But he strikes me^ though !" 

*' Those are some of the pictures of w^hat is past, Charley." 

" Cut away again," said the boy,^' and give us a fortune-telling one ; a future one." 

" Well! There am I, continuing with father and holding to father, because father loves me 
and I love father. I can't so much as read a book, because, if I had learned, father would 
have thought I was deserting him, and I should have lost my influence. I have not the influ- 
ence I want to have, I cannot stop some dreadful things I try to stop, but I go on in the hope 
and trust that the time will come. In the meanwhile I know that I am in some things a stay 
to father, and that if I was not faithful to him he would — in revenge-like, or in disappoint- 
ment, or both — go wild and bad." 

" Give us a touch of the fortune-telling pictures about me." 

" I was passing on to them, Charley," said the girl, who had not changed her attitude since 
she began, and who now mournfully shook her head ; " the others were all leading up. There 
you — " 
Where am I, Liz?" 



520 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



" Still in the hollow down by the flare." 

" There seems to be the deuce-and-all in the hollow down by the flare," said the boy, glanc- 
ing from her eyes to the brazier, which had a grisly skeleton look on its long thin legs. 

" There are you, Charley, working your way, in secret from father, at the school ; and you 
get prizes; and you go on better and better; and you come to be a — what was it you called it 
when you told me about that ?" 

"Ha, ha! Fortune-telling not to know the name!" cried the boy, seeming to be rather re- 
lieved by this default on the part of the hollow down by the flare. "Pupil teacher." 

" You come to be a pupil-teacher, and you still go on better and better, and you rise to be a 
master full of learning and respect. But the secret has come to father's knowledge long be- 
fore, and it has divided you from father, and from me." 

"No, it hasn't!" 

" Yes, it has, Charley. I see, as plain as plain can be, that your way is not ours, and that 
even if father could be got to forgive your taking it (which he nevjer could be), that way of 
yours would be darkened by our way. But I see too, Charley — " 

" Still as plain as plain can be, Liz?" asked the boy, playfully. 

" Ah! Still. That is a great work to have cut you away from father's life, and to have made 
a new and good beginning. So there am I, Charley, left alone with father, keeping him as 
straight as I can, watching for more influence than I have, and hoping that through some for- 
tunate chance, or when he is ill, or when — I don't know what — I may turn him to wish to do 
better things." 

" You said you couldn't read a book, Lizzie. Your library of books is the hollow down by 
the flare, I think." 

Charles Dickens. 
o 



TEE HAUJ^TED HOUSE. 



(Extract.) 



§H, very gloomy is the house of woe. 
Where tears are falling while the bell is 
knelling, 
"With all the dark solemnities that show 
That Death is in the dwelling! 

Oh, very, very dreary is the room 

Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nes- 
tles. 
But smitten by the common stroke of doom. 

The corpse lies on the trestles ! 

But house of woe, and hearse, and sable pall. 
The narrow home of the departed mortal, 

Ne'er looked so gloomy as that Ghostly Hall, 
With its deserted portal! 

The centipede along the threshold crept. 
The cobweb hung across in mazy tangle. 

And in its winding sheet the maggot slept 
At every nook and angle. 

The keyhole lodged the earwig and her brood. 
The emmets of the steps had old possession, 



And marched in search of their diurnal food 
In undisturbed procession. 

As undisturbed as the prehensile cell 
Of moth or maggot, or the spider's tissue, 

For never foot upon that threshold fell. 
To enter or to issue. 

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 
The place is haunted. 

Howbeit, the door I pushed— or so I dream- 
ed— 
Which slowly, slowly gaped, the hinges 
creaking 
With such a rusty eloquence, it seemed 
That Time himself was speaking. 

But Time was dumb within that mansion old, 
Or left his tale to the heraldic banners 

That hung from the corroded walls, and told 
Of former men and manners. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



621 



Those tattered flags, that with the opened 
door, 

Seemed the old wave of battle to remember, 
While fallen fragments danced upon the floor 

Like dead leaves in December. 

The startled bats flew out, bird after bird. 
The screech-owl overhead began to flutter. 

And seemed to mock the cry that she had 
heard 
Some dying victirti utter! 

A shriek that echoed from the joisted roof, 
And up the stair, and further still and fur- 
ther. 

Till in some ringing chamber far aloof 
It ceased its tale of murther ! 



The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a 
ball, 
Touched by some impulse occult or mechan- 
ic; 
And nameless beetles ran along thfe wall 
In universal pdhic. 

The subtle spider, that, from overhead. 
Hung like a spy on human guilt and errdr^ 

Suddenly turned, and up its slender thread 
Ran with a nimble terror. 

The very stains and fractures on the wall, 
Assuming features solemn and terrific, 

Hinted some tragedy of that old hall. 
Locked up in hieroglyphic. 




" One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed, 
To show the Bloody Hand, in burning red.' 



Meanwhile the rusty armor rattled round, 
The banner shuddered, and the ragged 
streamer; 

All things the horrid tenor of the sound 
Acknowledged with a tremor. 

The antlers where the helmet hung, and belt, 
Stirred as the tempest stirs the forest branch- 
es. 

Or as the stag had trembled when he felt 
The bloodhound at his haunches. 

The window jingled in its crumbled frame, 
And through its many gaps of destitution 

Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came. 
Like those of dissolution. 



Some tale that might, perchance, have solved 
the doubt. 
Wherefore, among those flags so dull and 
livid. 
The banner of the bloody hand shone out 
So ominously vivid. 

Some key to that inscrutable appeal 
Which made the very frame of Nature quiv- 
er. 

And every thrilling nerve and fiber feel 
So ague-like a shiver. 

For over all there hung a cloud of fear, 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 



522 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 
The place is haunted! 



Prophetic hints that filled the soul with 
dread, 
But through one gloomy entrance pointing 
mostly, 
The while some secret inspiration said, 
" That chamber is the ghostly!" 

Across the door no gossamer festoon 
Swung pendulous, — no web, no dusty 
fringes, 



N'o silky chrysalis or white cocoon, 
About its nooks and hinges. 

The spider shunned the interdicted room, 
The moth, the beetle, and the fly were ban- 
ished. 
And when the sunbeam fell athwart the 
gloom, 
The very midge had vanished. 

One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed, 
As if with awful aim direct and certain, 

To show the Bloody Hand, in burning red, 
Embroidered on the curtain. 

Thomas Hood. 



TO A LIBRARY. 

(.Extract.) 

WISDOM loves 
This seat serene and virtue's self ap- 
proves : 

Here comes the grieved, a change of thought 
to find, — 

The curious here to feed a craving mind ; 

Here the devout their peaceful temple choose, 

And here the poet meets his favorite muse. 

With awe, around these silent walks I 
tread, — 

These are the lasting mansions of the dead : 

"The dead!" methinks a thousand tongues 
reply ; 

"These are the tombs of such as cannot die! 

Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sub- 
lime, 

And laugh at all the little strife of time !" 

George Crabbe. 




Sir Philip Sidney. 



DESCRIPTIO.Y OF ARCADIA, 
'HERE were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble val- 
leys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers ; mead- 
ows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers ; thickets, which being lined with 
most pleasant shade, were witnessed so too, by the cheerful disposition of many well- 
birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty 
lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as 
though he should never be old ; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing; and 
it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice- 
,v,„c;^ . Sm Phh.ip Sidney. 




MoRNiisG Meditations. 




" Upon the sadness of the sea 
The sunset broods regretfully." 

'POEM^ OF ^EfLECTION, 



PROEM. 

LOVE the old melodious lays 
That softly melt the ages through, 
The songs of Spenser's golden days, 
Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, 
Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest 
morning dew. 

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours 
To breathe their marvelous notes I try : 
I feel them as the leaves and flowers 
In silence feel the dewy showers. 
And drink with glad still lips the blessing of 
the sky. 

The rigor of a frozen clime, 
The harshness of an untaught ear. 

The jarring words of one whose rhyme 
Beat often Labor's hurried time, 
Or Duty's rugged march through storm and 
strife, are here. 

Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, 

No rounded art the lack supplies ; 

Unskilled the subtile lines to trace. 
Or softer shades of Nature's face, 

I view her common forms with unanointed 
eyes. 



Nor mine the seer-like power to show 

The secrets of the heart and mind ; 
To drop the plummet-line below 
Our common world of joy and woe, 

A more intense despair or brighter hope to 
find. 

Yet here at least an earnest sense 
Of human right and weal is shown ; 

A hate of tyranny intense 

And hearty in its vehemence. 
As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my 
own. 

O Freedom ! if to me belong 
Nor mighty Milton's gift divine. 

Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song. 
Still with a love as deep and strong 
As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on 
thy shrine ! 

John Greeni^eaf Whitteer. 



THE SUJVBISE ^'EVER FAILED 

US yet:' 

fPON the sadness of the sea 
The sunset broods regretfully ; 



5126 



POEMS OF nEFLECTlOK'. 



From the far, lonely spaces, slow 
Withdraws the wistful afterglow. 

So out of life the splendor dies ; 
So darken all the happy skies ; 
So gathers twilight, cold and stern ; 
But overhead the planets burn. 

And up the east another day 
Shall chase the bitter dark away ; 



What though our eyes with tears be wet? 
The sunrise never failed us yet. 

The blush of dawn may yet restore 
Our light and hope and joy once more ; 
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 
That sunrise never failed us yet. 

CeLIA THAXTERi 




"Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 
That sunrise never failed us yet." 



PAIJf IjY pleasure. 

t THOUGHT lay like a flower upon mine My soul, so always. Foolish counterpart 
heart, Of a weak man's vain wishes ! While I spoke. 
And drew around it other thoughts, like The thought I called a flower grew nettle- 
bees rough ; 
For multitude and thirst of sweetnesses ; The thoughts called bees stung me to fester- 
Whereat rejoicing, I desired the art ing. 
Of the Greek whistler, who to wharf and Oh, entertain, cried Reason, as she woke, 

mart Your best and gladdest thoughts but long 

Could lure these insect swarms from enough, 

orange-trees. And they will all prove sad enough to sting! 
That I might hive with me such thoughts, 

and please Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOK. 



627 



xottii:kg lost. 

/j**^E'rACHED, separated ! I say there is no such separation ; nothing hitherto was ever 
Vl^ J stranded, cast aside ; but all, were it only a withered leaf, works together with all ; is 
^^ borne forward on the bottomless, shoreless flood of action, and lives through perpetual 
metamorphoses. The withered leaf is not dead and lost, there are forces in it and 
around it, though working in inverse order; else how could it rot? Despise not the rag from 
which man makes paper, or the litter from which the earth makes corn. Rightly viewed, no 
meanest object is insignirtcant; all objects are as windows, through which the philosophic 
mind looks into infinitude itself. 

Thomas Carlyle. 






TEE ARROW AXB THE SOJVG. 

(Mrs. Browning's favorite among Longfellow's Poems.) 

SHOT an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I brdathed a song into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 
Hexry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



K. 1. 



^e^ ^vi 



<i h^(w^ , 



'^.'^ V'^ 



l^i 






JfATURE AXB ART, 

(From • ' Keramos. ' ') 

TgTRT is the child of Nature; yes, 
^m. Her darling child, in whom we trace 
The feature of the mother's face, 
Her aspect and her attitude, 
All her majestic loveliness 
Chastened and softened and subdued 
Into a more attractive grace, 
And with a human sense imbued. 
He is the greatest artist, then, 
Whether of pencil or of pen, 
Who follows Nature. Never man, 
As artist or as artisan. 
Pursuing his own fantasies, 
Can touch the human heart, or please, 
Or satisfy our nobler needs. 
As he who sets his willing feet 
In Nature's footprints, light and fleet , 
And follows fearless where she leads. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



5-23 



I»0I:MS of REFLECTION". 



ODE OJf A GRECIAJ^ UEJV. 
I. 
rnnOU still unravished bride of quietness ! 
F Thou foster-child of Silence and slow 
Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our 
rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy 
shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these? What maid- 
ens loath ? 
VYhat mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecs- 
tacy? 

n. 
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endoar'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not 
leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not 
grieve. 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy 
bliss. 
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 

in. 
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

Forever piping songs forever new ; 
More happy love I more happy, happy love ! 
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed. 
Forever panting and forever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and 
cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching 
tongue. 



Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands 
drest? 
What little town by river or sea-shore, 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 



Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

V. 

O Attic shape ! Fair altitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 
Thou silent form! dost tease us out of 
thought 
As does eternity. Cold Pastoral! 
When old age shall this generation w^aste, 
Thou Shalt remain in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou 

say'st, 
" Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 
know. 

John Keats. 



ECHOES. 

§FTTIMES when Even's scarlet flag 
Floats from the crest of distant woods, 
And over moorland waste and crag 

A weary, voiceless sorrow broods, 
Around me hover to and fro 
The ghosts of songs heard long ago. 

And often midst the rush of wheels, 

Of passing and repassing feet. 
When half a headlong city reels 

Triumphant down the noontide street, 
Above the tumult of the throngs 
I hear again the same old songs. 

Rest and Unrest— 'Tis strange that ye, 
Who lie apart as pole from pole. 

Should sway with one strong sovereignty 
The secret issues of the soul ; 

Strange that ye both should hold the keys 

Of prisoned tender memories. 

It may be when the landscape's rim 
Is red and slumbrous round the west. 

The spirit too grows still and dim. 
And turns in half-unconscious quest 

To those forgotten lullabies 

That whilom closed the infant's eyes. 

And maybe, when the city mart 
Roars with its fullest, loudest tide, 

The spirit loses helm and chart, 
And on an instant terrified. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



529 



Has fled across the space of years 

To notes that banished childhood's fears. 

We know not — but 'tis sweet to know 
Dead hours still haunt the living day, 



And sweet to hope that, when the slow, 

Sure message beckons us away. 
The past may send some tuneful breath 
To echo round the bed of death. 

Anonymous. 




" The light of the bright world dies 
With the setting sun." 

LIGHT. 

(The reputation of the Hon. William Robert Spencer rests upon a dozen lines only: "Too Late I Stayed." The repu- 
tation of Bourdillon was established by the following eight lines, written while an Oxford under-graduate:) 



fHE night has a thousand eyes, 
And the day but one ; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 
With the setting sun. 



The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When love is done. 

Francis W. Bourdillon. 



AFPRECIATIOJY. 



\0 the seashell's spiral round 
'Tis your heart that brings the sound; 
The soft sea-murmurs that you hear 
Within, are captured from your ear. 
You do poets and their son^ 



A grievous wrong, 

If your own soul does not bring 

To their high imagining 

As much l^eauty as they sing. 

Thojmas Bailey Aldrich. 



530 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



(From 



MERCY. 

Merchant of Venice," Act IV., Scene 1.) 



fHE quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heav- 
en 

Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes; 

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown ; 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal pow- 
er, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 

But mercy is above this scepter'd sway. 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest 
God's, 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this,— 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to ren- 
der 

The deeds of mercy. 

WiLLlAJM ShaKSPERE. 



REPUTATIOJ^. 

(From " Othello," Act III., Scene 3.) 

tOOD name, in man, and woman, dear my 
lord, 
Is the immediate jewel of their souls. 
Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 'tis some- 
thing, nothing ; 
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to 

thousands ; 
But he, that filches from me my good name, 
Robs me of that w^hich not enriches him. 
And makes me poor indeed. 

William Shakspere. 



UPOM THE BEACH. 

Y life is like a stroll upon the beach, 
)f ^:vA As near the ocean's edge as I can go ; 
My tardy steps the waves sometimes o'er- 
reach. 
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. 

My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulous care, 
To set my gains beyond the reach of tides — 

Each smoother pebble, and each shell more 
rare, 
TVhich ocean kindly to my hand confides. 



I have but few companions on the shore, 
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea; 

Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er 
Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse. 

Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view; 
Along the shore my hand is on its pulse. 
And I converse with many a shipwrecked 
crew. 

Henry David Thoreau. 




Henry David Thoreau. 



IMAGIKATIOK. 

(From "King Richard II., Act I., Scene 3.) 

tAUNT. All places that the eye of heaven 
visits. 
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens : 
Teach thy necessity to reason thus ; 
There is no virtue like necessity. 
Think not, the king did banish thee ; 
But thou the king : Wo doth the heavier sit. 
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. 
Go, say— I sent thee forth to purchase honour. 
And not — the king exil'd thee : or suppose. 
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air. 
And thou art flying to a fresher clime. 
Look, what th^ soul holds dear, imagine it 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 531 

To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? 

com'st : Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite, 

Suppose the singing birds, musicians ; By bare imagination of a feast ? 

The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence Or wallow naked in December snow, 

strew'd ; By thinking on fantastic summer's heat ? 

The flowers, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more O, no! the apprehension of the good. 

Than a delightful measure, or a dance ; Gives but the greater feeling to the worse : 

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more, 

The man that mocks at it, and sets it light. Then when it bites, but lanceth not the sore. 
Bolinghroke. O, who can hold a fire in his William Shakspere. 

hand, 



A DEFEjYCE of EjYTHUSIASM. 

f^ ET us recognize the beauty and power of true enthusiasm ; and, whatever we may do 
•^* /• to enlighten ourselves and others, guard against checking or chilling a single earnest 

Imdk sentiment. For what is the human mind, however enriched with acquisitions or 
strengthened by exercise, unaccompanied by an ardent and sensitive heart? Its light 
may illumine but it cannot inspire. It may shed a cold and moonlight radiance upon the 
path of life, but it warms no flower into bloom ; is sets free no ice-bound fountains. Dr. 
Johnson used to say, that an obstinate rationality prevented him from being a Papist. Does 
not the same cause prevent many of us from unburdening our hearts and breathing our de- 
votions at the shrines of nature ? There are influences which environ humanity too subtle 
for the dissecting-knife of reason. In our better moments we are clearly conscious of their 
presence, and if there is any barrier to their blessed agency it is a formalized intellect. En- 
thusiasm, too, is the very life of gifted spirits. Ponder the lives of the glorious in art or lit- 
erature through all ages. What are they but records of toil and sacrifices supported by the 
earnest hearts of their votaries? Dante composed his immortal poem amidst evils and suffer- 
ing, prompted by the noble ambition of vindicating himself to posterity ; and the sweetest 
angel of his paradise is the object of his early love. The best countenances the old painters 
have bequeathed to us are those of cherished objects intimately associated with their fame. 
The face of Raphael's mother blends with the angelic beauty of all his Madonnas. Titian's 
daughter and the wife of Correggio again and again meet in their works. Well does Foscolo 
call the fine arts the children of love. The deep interest with which the Italians hail gifted 
men, inspires them to the mightiest efforts. National enthusiasm is the great nursery of gen- 
ius. When Cellini's statue of Perseus was first exhibited on the Piazza at Florence, it was 
surrounded for days by an admiring throng, and hundreds of tributary sonnets were placed 
upon its pedestal. Petrarch was crowned with laurel at Rome for his poetical labors, and 
crowds of the unlettered may still be seen on the Mole at ISTaples, listening to areaderof Tasso. 
Reason is not the only interpreter of life. The fountain of action is in the feelings. Relig- 
ion itself is but a state of the affections. I once met a beautiful peasant woman in the valley 
of the Arno, and asked the number of her children. " I have three here and two in Paradise," 
she calmly replied with a tone and manner of touching and grave simplicity. Her faith was 
of the heart. Constituted as human nature is, it is in the highest degree natural that rare 
powers should be excited by voluntary and spontaneous appreciation. Who would not feel 
urged to high achievements, if he knew that every beauty his canvas displayed, or every 
perfect note he breathed, or every true inspiration of his lyre, would find an instant response 
in a thousand breasts ? Lord Brougham calls the word " impossible " the mother-tongue of 
little souls. What, I ask, can counteract self-distrust, and sustain the higher efforts of our na- 
ture, but enthusiasm ? More of this element Avould call forth the genius and gladden the life of 



532 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



New England. While the mere intellectual man speculates, and the mere man of acquisition 
cites authority, the man of feeling acts, realizes, puts forth his complete energies. His earn- 
est and strong heart will not let his mind rest; he is urged by an inward impulse to embody 
his thoughts; he must have sympathy ; he must have results. And nature yields to the magic- 
ian, acknowledging him as her child. The noble statue comes forth from the marble, the 
speaking figure stands out from the canvas, the electric chain is struck in the bosoms of his 
fellows. They receive his ideas, respond to his appeal, and reciprocate his love. 

Henry Theodore Tuckerman. 
o 



A J^OBLE LIFE, 

(From " FestiTS.") 

I^EEP thy spirit pure 

W\^ From worldly taint, by the repellent 

strength 
Of virtue. Think on noble thoughts and deeds 
Ever. Count o'er the rosary of truth, 
And practise precepts which are proven wise. 
It matters not, then, what thou fearest; walk 
Boldly and fearlessly in the light thou hast ; 
There is a Hand above will lead thee on. 

Philu* Jaimes Bailey. 



i^d^. 




Philip James Bailey. 



WISDOM UJ^APPLIED. 

F I were thou. O butterfly, 
And poised my purple wings to spy 
The sweetest flowers that live and die, 



I would not waste my strength on those. 
As thou ; for summer hath a close. 
And pansies bloom not in the snows. 

If I were thou, O working bee, 
And all that honey-gold I see 
Could delve from roses easily, 

I would not hive it at man's door, 
As thou, that heirdom of my store 
Should make him rich, and leave me poor. 

If I were thou, O eagle proud. 

And screamed the thunder back aloud. 

And faced the lightning from the cloud, 

I would not build my eyrie-throne, 

As thou, upon a crumbling stone, 

Which the next storm may trample down. 

If I were thou, O gallant steed. 
With pawing hoof and dancing head. 
And eye outrunning thine own speed, 

I would not meeken to the rein, 

As thou, nor smooth my nostril plain 

From the glad desert's snort and strain. 

If I were thou, red-breasted bird. 
With song at shut-up window heard, 
Like Love's sweet Yes, too long deferred, 

I would not overstay delight. 

As thou, but take a swallow-flight. 

Till the new spring returned to sight. 

While yet I spake, a touch was laid 
Upon my brow, whose pride did fade 
As thus, methought, an angel said : 

" If I w^ere thou who sing'st this song. 
Most wise for others, and most strong 
In seeing right while doing wrong, 

I would not waste my cares, and choose 
As thou, to seek what thou must lose, 
Such gains as perish in the use. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



533 



" I would not work where none can win, 
As thou, half way 'twixt grief and sin, 
But look above, and judge within. 

" I would not let my pulse beat high, 
As thou, towards fame's regality, 
Nor yet'in love's great jeopardy. 

" I would not champ the hard, cold bit. 
As thou, of what the world thinks fit, 



" I would not play earth's winter out. 
As thou ; but gird my soul about, 
And live for life past death and doubt. 

"Then sing, O singer! but allow 
Beast, fly, and bird, called foolish now. 
Are wise, for all thy scorn, as thou." 

Elizabeth Bakrett Beowning. 



(From 



MEMORY. 

The Pleasures of Memory.' ) 



W THERE AL Power! who at the noon of 
M£ night 

Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight, 
From whom that musing, melancholy mood, 
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good. 
Blest Memory, hail! Oh, grant the grateful 

Muse, 
Her pencil dipped in N'ature's living hues. 
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll. 
And trace its airy precincts in the soul. 
Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, 
Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden 

chain ; 
Awake but one, and lo ! what myriads rise ! 
Each stamps its image as the other flies ; 
Each, as the various avenues of sense 
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, 
Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art. 



Control the latent fibers of the heart. 

As studious Prospero's mysterious spell 

Drew every subject-spirit to his cell, 

Each, at thy call, advances or retires. 

As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires, 

Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred 

source 
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy 

course, 
And through the frame invisible convey 
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ; 
Man's little universe at once o'ercast, 
At once illumined when the cloud is past. 
Samuel Rogees. 



MEMORY. 

fHE mother of the muses, we are taught, 
Is Memory ; she has left me ; they remain, 
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing 
About the summer days, my loves of old. 
" Alas ! alas !" is all I can reply. 
Memory has left me with that name alone. 
Harmonious name, which other bards may 

sing, 
But her bright image in my darkest hour 
Comes back, in vain comes back, called or un- 
called. 
Forgotten are the names of visitors 
Ready to press my hand but yesterday ; 
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends, 
Whose genial converse and glad countenance 
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye. 
To these, when I have written, and besought 
Remembrance of me, the word " Dear" alone 
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain. 
A blessing wert thou, O Oblivion, 
If thy stream carried only weeds away; 
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike 
It hurries down to wither on the strand. 

Walter Savage Landob. 



POWER AJYD GEJVIUS. 

(From " The Last of the Barons.") 

'HERE," said Adam quietly, and pointing to the feudal roofs — " There seems to rise 
power; and yonder" (glancing to the river) — " yonder seems to flow genius! A cen- 
tury or so hence the walls shall vanish, but the river shall roll on. Man makes the 
castle and founds the power— God forms the river, and creates the genius. And yet, 
Sybill, there may be streams as broad and stately as yonder Thames, that flow afar in the 
waste, never seen, never heard by man. What profits the river unmarked ? what the genius 
never to be known ?" 
It was not a common thing with A^sm Warner to be thxxs eloquent, XJsually silent and ab- 
33 




534 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



sorbed, it was not his gift to moralize or declaim. His soul must be deeply movea beior^ne 
profound and buried sentiment within it could escape into words. 

Sybill pressed her father's hand, and though her own heart was very heavy, she forced her 
lips to smile, and her voice to soothe. Adam interrupted her. 

" Child, child, ye women know not what presses darkest and most bitterly on the minds of 
men. You know not what it is to form out of immaterial things some abstract but glorious 
object — to worship, to serve it — to sacrifice to it, as on an altar, youth, health, hope, life — and 
suddenly, in old age, to see that the idol was a phantom, a mockery, a shadow laughing us to 
scorn, because we have sought to clasp it." 

" O yes, father, women have known that illusion." 

*' What ! do they study ?" 

*'No, father, but they feel!" 

"^eel! I comprehend thee not." 

"As man's genius to him, is woman's heart to her," answered Sybill, her dark and deep 
eyes suffused with tears. " Doth not the heart create — invent ? Doth it not dream ? Doth it 
not form its idol out of air? Goeth it not forth into the future to prophesy to itself? And, 
sooner or later, in age or youth, doth it not wake itself at last, and see how it hath wastea its 
all on follies? Yes, father, my heart can answer, when thy genius would complain." 

Sir Edwakd Bulwer, Lord Lytton. 

CULTURE. 

(From ''Literature aud Dogma.") 

*HE poor require culture as much as the rich; and at present their education, even 
when they get education, gives them hardly anything of it. Yet hardly less of it, per- 
haps, than the education of the rich gives to the rich. For when we say that culture 
is: To know the best that has been thought and said in the world, we imply that, for 
culture, a system directly tending to this end is necessary in our reading. Kow, there is no 
such system yet present to guide the reading of the rich, any more than of the poor. Such a 
system is hardly even thought of; a man who wants it must make it for himself. And our 
reading being so without purpose as it is, nothing can be truer than what Butler says, that 
really, in general, no part of our time is more idly spent than the time spent in reading. 

Still, culture is indispensably necessary, and culture implies reading; but reading with a 
purpose to guide it, and with system. He does a good work who does anything to help this; 
indeed, it is the one essential service now to be rendered to education. And the plea, that 
this or that man has no time for culture, will vanish as soon as we desire culture so much 
that we begin to examine seriously our present use of our time. It has often been said, and 
cannot be said too often, give to any man all the time that he now wastes, not only on his 
vices, when he has them, but on useless business, wearisome or deterioriating amusements, 
trivial letter- writing, random reading; and he will have plenty of time for culture. "Die 
Zeit ist unendlich lang," says Goethe ; and so it really is. Some of us waste all of it, most of 
us waste much, but all of us waste some. Matthew Arnold. 

o 

PEBFECTIOJV. 

(From " King John," Act IV., Scene 2.) 

to be possess'd To smooth the ice, or add another hue 
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light 
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, 
Js wasteful, and ridiculous excess. 

"VV1LLI4M ^HAKSPEJIE, 



§ALISBURY. Therefore 
with double pomp. 
To guard a title that was rich before. 
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
Tq tbjTQw a perfuBfje on the y|Qlet| 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOI^. 



535 



L'ALLEGEO.. 

MENCE, loathed Melancholy, 
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 
'Mongst horrid shapes; and shrieks, and sights 
unholy ! 
Find out some uncouth cell 
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous 

wings. 
And the night-raven sings ; 
There, under ebon shades, and low-browed 

rocks. 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 
But come, thou goddess fair and free, 
In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, 




"Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 
As he met her once a-Maying." 

And, by men, heart-easing Mirth, 

Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 

With two sister Graces more 

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; 

Or whether, as some sages sing, 

The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 

Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 

^e he met her pnce ^-Maj^in^, 



There, on beds of violets blue, 
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
Filled her with thee a daughter fair, 
So buxom, blithe, and debonaire. 

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
Quips, and cranks and wanton wiles, 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles. 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter, holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it as you go 
On the light fantastic toe ; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
And if I give thee honor due. 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
To live with her, and live with thee 
In unreproved pleasures free ; 
To hear the lark begin his flight. 
And singing, startle the dull Night, 
From his watch-tow^er in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come, in spite of Sorrow, 
And at my window bid good-morrow 
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine. 
Or the twisted eglantine ; 
While the cock, with lively din. 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin. 
And to the stack or the barn door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before ; 
Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
Cheerily rouse the slumbering Morn 
lYom the side of some hoar hill, 
Through the high w^ood echoing shrill. 
Sometime walking, not unseen. 
By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green. 
Right against the eastern gate 
Where the great Sun begins his state. 
Robed in flames and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight, 
Whilst the plowman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
And the milk-maid singeth blithe. 
And the mower whets his scythe. 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorne in the dale. 
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleas- 
ures. 
Whilst the landscape round it measures 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray, 
Mouiitai{i3, on whose barren breast 



536 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOlSr. 



The laboring clouds do often rest, 
Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees, 
Bosomed high in tufted trees, 
Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where Cory don and Thyrsi s met 



Dancing in the checkered shade ; 

And young and old come forth to play 

On a sunshiny holiday. 

Till the livelong daylight fail; 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 

With stories told of many a feat : 

How fairy Mab the junkets eat — 

She was pinched and pulled, she said, 

And he by friar's lantern led ; 

Tells how the drudging goblin sw^eat 

To earn his cream-bowl, duly set. 

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 

His shadowy flail had threshed the corn 

That ten day-laborers could not end ; 

Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 




'Where throngs of knights and bnions bol 
In weeds of peace high triumplis hold, 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Kain influence, and judge tlie prize." 



Are at their savory dinner set 

Of herbs, and other country messes, 

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; 

And then in haste her bower she leaves. 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earlier season lead, 

To the tanned haycock in the mead. 

Sometime, with secure delight 

The upland hamlets will invite. 

When the merry bells ring round, 

And the jocund rebecks sound 

To many a youth, and many a maid, 



And stretched out all the chimney's length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 
And, cropfull, out of doors he flings 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 

By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then, 

And the busy hum of men. 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold 

In weeds of peacQ high triumphs hold, 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



537 



With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe with taper clear, 
And pomp and feast and revelry. 
With masque, and antique pageantry, 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eve by haunted stream ; 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
Or sweetest Shakspere, fancy's child. 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares. 

Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 

Married to immortal verse. 

Such as the meeting soul may pierce 

In notes with many a winding bout 

Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 

With w^anton heed and giddy cunning 

The melting voice through mazes running, 

Untwisting all the chains that tie 

The hidden soul of harmony ; 

That Orpheus' self may heave his head 

From golden slumber on a bed 

Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 

Such strains as would have won the ear 

Of Pluto, to have quite set free 

His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

John Milton. 



IL FEJ^SEROSO. 

MENCE, vain deluding joys. 
The brood of folly without father bred ! 

How little you bested. 
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! 

Dwell in some idle brain, 
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 
As thick and numberless 
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams. 
Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy. 
Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of mortal sight ; 
And therefore, to our weaker view, 
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
Black, but such as in esteem 



Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 

Or that starred Ethiop Queen that strove 

To set her beauty's praise above 

The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended; 

Yet thou art higher far descended ; 

Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 

To solitary Saturn bore ; 

His daughter she (in Saturn's reign. 

Such mixture was not held a stain). 

Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 

He met her, and in secret shades 

Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 

While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 

Sober, steadfast, and demure, 

All in a robe of darkest grain. 

Flowing with majestic train. 

And sable stole of Cyprus lawn 




" Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure." 

Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state. 
With even pace, and musing gait. 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes ; 
There held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad, leaden, downward cast, 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 



638 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 
And hears the muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure. 
But first and chiefest, with thee bring. 
Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
Gilding the liery-wheeled throne, 
The cherub Contemplation; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel will deign a song. 
In her sweetest, saddest plight, 
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 



I hear the far-off curfew sound. 

Over some wide-watered shore, 

Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 

Or if the air will not permit. 

Some still removed place will fit. 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom. 

Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth. 

Or the bellman's drowsy charm. 

To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 

Be seen in some high lonely tower. 

Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 




"Where tho rudo ax uitli " 

hciued stroke '^Ja -^ 

Was never heard the ^"^V" ,]S^^ 

nymphs to daunt." 



While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 

Gently o'er th' accustomed oak; 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 

Most musical, most melancholy I 

Thee, Chantress, oft, the woods among, 

I woo, to hear thy evening song ; 

And missing thee, I walk unseen 

On the dry smooth-shaven green. 

To behold the wand'ring moon, 

Like one that had been led astray 

Through the heaven's wide pathless way. 

And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft on a plat of rising ground, 



With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds, or what vast regions hold 
Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in the fleshly nook; 
And of those Demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine. 
Or what, though rare, of later age, 



i 



POEMS OF KEFLEOTIOK. 



630 



Ennobled hath thy buskined stage. 
But oh, sad virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musseus from his bower, 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made hell grant what love did s«ek. 
Or call him up that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold. 
Of Cam ball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass. 



But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or ushered with a shower still 
When the gust hath blown his fill, 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 
With minute drops from oft' the eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves. 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
Of pine, or monumental oak. 
Where the rude ax with heaved stroke 




" There let the pealing organ blow, 
To the full-voiced choir below." 



And of the wondrous horse of brass 
On which the Tartar king did ride! 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
Of tourneys and of trophies hung, 
Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, Nig"ht, oft see me in thy pale career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not tricked and frounced as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt, 



Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
There in close covert by some brook, 
Where no profaner eye may look, 
Hide me from day's garish eye ; 
While the bee with honeyed thigh, 
Tliat at her flowery work doth sing. 
And the waters murmuring 
With such concert as they keep, 
Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep ; 
And let some strange, mysterious dream 
Wave at his wings in airy stream 



540 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 



Of lively portraiture displayed; 

Softly on my eyelids laid. 

And as I wake, sweet music breathe, 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

Or the unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 

To walk the studious cloisters pale. 

And love the high embowed roof. 

With antique pillars massy proof, 

And storied windows richly dight. 

Casting a dim, religious light. 

There let the pealing organ blow. 

To the full-voiced choir below. 

In service high and anthems clear. 



As may with sweetness through mine ear 
Dissolve me into ecstacies. 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes : 
And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
The hairy gown and mossy cell 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth shew. 
And every herb that sips the dew ; 
Till old experience doth attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 
These pleasures. Melancholy, give. 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

John Milton. 



TRUTH. 

(From " Areopagitica.") 

'RUTH, indeed, came once into the world with her Divine Master, and was a perfect 
shape, most glorious to look on ; but when he ascended, and his apostles after him 
were laid asleep, then straight arose a wicked race of deceivers, who, as that story goes 
of the Egyptian Typhon with his conspirators, how they dealt with the god Osiris, took 
the virgin Truth, hewed her lovely form into a thousand pieces, and scattered them to the 
four winds. From that time ever since, the sad friends of Truth, such as durst appear, imita- 
ting the careful search that Isis made for the mangled body of Osiris, went up and down, 
gathering up limb by limb, still as they could find them. We have not yet found them all, nor 
ever shall do, till her Master's second coming; he shall bring together every joint and mem- 
ber, and mould them into an immortal feature of loveliness and perfection. 

John Milton. 



KJfOWLEDGE AjYD POWER. 

y^^LL the literature of knowledge builds only ground-nests, that are swept away by 
I ^1 floods, or confounded by the plow ; but the literature of power builds nests in aerial 
^^ altitudes of temples sacred from violation, or of forests inaccessible to fraud. This is a 
great prerogative of the power of literature ; and it is a greater which lies in the mode 
of its influence. The knowledge of literature, like the fashion of this world, passeth away. 
An encyclopaedia is its abstract; and in this respect, it may be taken for its speaking sym- 
bol, that, before one generation has passed, an encyclopaedia is superannuated; for it speaks 
through the dead memory and unimpassioned understanding, which have not the rest of 
higher faculties, but are continually enlarging and varying their phylacteries. But all litera- 
ture, properly so called, literature y.o.i i^oxTjv, for the very same reason that it is so much more 
durable than the literature of knowledge is, and, by the very proportion it is, more intense 
and electrically searching in its impressions. The directions in which the tragedy of this 
planet has trained our human feelings to play, and the combinations in which the poetry of 
this planet has thrown our human passions of love and hatred, of admiration and contempt, 
exercise a power bad or good over human life, that cannot be contemplated, when stretching 
through many generations, without a sentiment allied to awe. And of this let every one be 
assiured, that he owes more to the impassioned books he has read, many a thousand more of 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



541 



emotions than he can consciously trace back to them. Dim by their origination, these emo- 
tions yet arise in him, and mould him through life like the forgotten incidents of childhood. 

Thomas De Quincey. 


MIRTH. 

(From "Guesses at Truth.") 

URELY, it cannot be requisite, to a man's being in earnest, that he should wear a per- 
petual frown. Or is there less of sincerity in Nature during her gambols in spring, 
than during her stiffness and harshness of her wintry gloom? Does not the bird's 
blithe caroling come from the heart quite as much as the quadruped's monotonous cry? 
And is it then altogether impossible to take up one's abode with Truth, and to let all sweet 
homely feelings grow about it and cluster around it, and to smile upon it as a kind father or 
mother, and to sport with it, and hold light and merry talk with it, as with a loved brother or 
sister; and to fondle it, and play with it, as with a child? No otherwise did Socrates and 
Plato commune with Truth ; no otherwise Cervantes and Shakspere. This playfulness of 
Truth is beautifully represented by Landor, in the conversation between Marcus Cicero and 
his brother and an allegory which has the voice and the spirit of Plato. On the other hand, 
the outcries of those who exclaim against every sound more lively than a bray or a beat, as 
derogatory to truth, are often prompted, not so much by their deep feeling of the dignity of 
the truth in question, as of the dignity of the person by whom the truth is maintained. It is 
our vanity, our self-conceit, that makes us so sore and irritable. To a grave argument we 
may reply gravely, and fancy that we have the best of it ; but he who is too dull or too angry 
to smile, cannot answer a smile, except by fretting and fuming. Olivia lets us into the secret 
of Malvolio's distaste for the Clown. 

Julius Charles Hare. 



VALOR AJfD VIRTUJE. 

'HO shall be fairest ? 
Who shall be rarest ? 
Who shall be first in the songs that we sing ? 
She who is kindest 
When fortune is blindest. 
Bearing through winter the blossoms of 
spring ! 
Charm of our gladness, 
Friend of our sadness. 
Angel of life, when its pleasures take wing. 
She shall be fairest. 
She shall be rarest. 
She shall be first in the songs that we sing. 

Who shall be nearest, 
Noblest and dearest, 

Named but with honor and pride evermore ? 
He, the undaunted. 
Whose banner is planted 

On glory's high ramparts and battlements 
hoar; 
Fearless of danger. 
To falsehood a stranger. 

Looking not back when there's duty before ! 



He shall be nearest. 

He shall be dearest. 

He shall be first in our hearts evermore ! 

Charles Mackay. 



IMTELLECTVAL BEAUTY. 
EAUTY still walketh on the earth and 



11/ air; 

Our present sunsets are as rich in gold 
As ere the Iliad's music was out-rolled ; 
The roses of the spring are ever fair; 
Mid branches green still ring-doves coo and 
pair. 
And the deep sea still foams its music old. 
So, if we are at all divinely souled, 
This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 
'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us 
bending 
Within old starry-gated Poesy, 
To meet a soul, set to no worldly tune. 
Like thine, sweet friend ! Oh, dearer this 
to me. 
Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon. 
Or noble music with a golden ending! 

Alexander Sivhth. 



54^ 



JjiHxtA 



iuf^ 



:MS of HEFLECnOl 

''thoughts:' 






L/vtta*i^ 



Jl, TL ^^t^do^fl. 



DIFFEREJ^T MTJVDS, 

N every man's mind some images, words, and facts remain, without effort on his part to 
' imprint them, which others forget, and afterwards these illustrate to him important laws. 
All our progress is an unfolding, like the vegetable bud. You have first an instinct, then 
an opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust the instinct 
to the end, though you can render no reason. It is vain to hurry it. By trusting it to the 
end it shall ripen into truth, and you shall know why you believe. 

Each mind has its own method. A true man never acquires after college rules. What you 
have aggregated in a natural manner surprises and delights when produced. For we cannot 
oversee each other's secret. And hence the difference between men in their natural endow- 
ment are insignificant in comparison with their common wealth. Do you think the porter 
and the cook have no anecdotes, no experiences, no wonder, for you? Everybody knows as 
much as the servants. The walls of rude minds are scrawled all over with facts, with 
thoughts. They shall one day bring a lantern and read the inscriptions. Every man, in the 
degree in which he has wit and culture, finds his curiosity inflamed concerning the modes of 
living and thinking of other men, and especially those classes whose minds have not been 
subdued by the drill of school education. 

This instinctive action never ceases in a healthy mind, but becomes richer and more fre- 
quent in its information through all stages of culture. At last comes the era of reflection, 
when we not only observe, but take pains to observe; when we of set purpose sit down to 
consider an abstract truth ; when we keep the mind's eye open, whilst we converse, whilst 
we read, whilst we act, intent to learn the secret of law of some class of facts. 



rOEMS OF REFLECTION. 



643 



What is the hardest task in the world ? To think. I would put myself in the attitude to 
look in the eye of an abstract truth, and I cannot. I blench and withdraw on this side and 
that. I seem to know what he meant, who said, " No man can see God face to face, and 
live." For example, a man explores the basis of civil government. Let him intend his mind 
without respite, without rest, in one direction. His best heed long time avails him nothing. 
Yet thoughts are flitting before him. We all but apprehend, we dimly forebode the truth. 
We say, I will walk abroad, and the truth will take form and clearness to me. We go forth, 
but cannot find it. It seems as if we needed only the stillness and composed attitude of the 
library, to seize the thought. But we come in, and are as far from it as at first. Then, in a 
moment, and unannounced, the truth appears. A certain wandering light appears, and is the 
distinction, the principle, we wanted. But the oracle comes, because we had previously laid 
siege to the shrine. It seems as if the law of the intellect resembles that law of nature by 
which we now inspire, now expire, the breath by which the heart now draws in, now hurls 
out the blood : the law of undulation. So now you must labor with your brains, and now 
you must forbear your activity, and see what the great soul showeth. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



GJfOSIS. 
JMHOUGHT is deeper than all speech, 
"P Feeling deeper than all thought ; 
Souls to souls can never teach 
What unto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in vails ; 

Man by man was never seen ; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 

Heart to heart was never known, 
Mind with mind did never meet ; 

We are columns left alone. 
Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky. 
Far apart, though seeming near, 

In our light we scattered lie ; 
All is thus but starlight here. 

What is social company 

But a babbling summer stream? 

What our wise philosophy 
But the glancing of a dream ? 

Only when the sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought ; 
Only when we live above 

What the dim-eyed world hath taught ; 

Only when our souls are fed 

By the Fount which gave them birth. 
And by inspiration led 

Which they never drew from earth. 

We, like parted drops of rain 
Swelling till they meet and run, 



Shall be all absorbed again, 
Melting, flowing into one. 

Christopher Pearse Cranch. 

THE EApFy life. 

TjTOW happy is he born and taught, 
Mi[ That serveth not another's will; 
Whose armor is his honest thought. 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are. 
Whose soul is still prepared for death ; 

Not tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise. 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by 
praise; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 

Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong re- 
treat ; 

Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make accusers great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend. 

This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wottox. 




"A beautiful and happy girl. 
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl." 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



545 



MEMORIES. 

t BEAUTIFUL and happy girl, 
With step as light as summer air, 
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, 
Shadowed by many a careless curl 
Of unconfined and flowing hair; 
A seeming child in every thing. 

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms. 
As nature wears the smile of Spring, 
When sinking into Summer's arms. 

A mind rejoicing in the light 

Which melted through its graceful bower, 
Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright. 
And stainless in its holy white. 

Unfolding like a morning flower. 
A heart, which, like a flne-toned lute. 

With every breath of feeling woke. 
And, even when the tongue was mute, 

From eye and lip in music spoke. 

How thrills once more the lengthening chain 

Of memory, at the thought of thee ! 
Old hopes, which long in dust have lahi. 
Old dreams, come thronging back again. 

And boyhood lives again in me ; 
I feel its glow upon my cheek. 

Its fullness of the heart is mine. 
As when I leaned to hear thee speak. 

Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 

I hear again thy low replies, 

I feel thy arm within my own, 
And timidly again uprise 
The fringed lids of hazel eyes. 

With soft brown tresses overblown. 
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves. 

Of moonlit wave and willowy way. 
Of stars, and flowers, and dewy leaves. 

And smiles and tones more dear than they ! 

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled 

My picture of the youth to see, 
When, half a woman, half a child, 
Thy very artlessness beguiled. 

And folly's self seemed wise in thee ; 
I too can smile, when o'er that hour 

The lights of memory backward stream. 
Yet feel the while that manhood's power 

Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 

Years have passed on, and left their trace 
Qf graver care and deeper thought j 



And unto me the calm, cold face 
Of manhood, and to thee the grace 

Of woman's pensive beauty brought. 
More wide, perchance, for blame than praise. 

The school-boy's humble name has flown ; 
Thine, in the green and quiet ways 

Of unobtrusive goodness known. 

And wider yet In thought and deed 

Diverge our pathways, one in youth ; 
Thine the Genevan's sternest creed. 
While answers to my spirit's needs 

The Derby dalesman's simple truth ; 
For thee, the priestly rite and prayer. 

And holy day, and solemn psalm ; 
For me, the silent reverence where 

My brethren gather slow and calm. 

Yet hath thy spirit left on me 

An impress time hath not worn out, 
And something of myself in thee, 
A shadow from the past, I see. 

Lingering, even yet, thy way about ; 
Not wholly can the heart unlearn 

That lesson of its better hours ; 
Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn 

To common dust that path of flowers. 

Thus, while at times, before our eyes. 

The shadows melt, and fall apart, 
And smiling through them round us lies 
The warm light of our morning skies. 

The Indian summer of the heart : 
In secret sympathies of mind, 

In founts of feeling which retain 
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may flnd 

Our early dreams not wholly vain. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



THE HERITAGE. 

(From " The Castle of ludolence.") 

CARE not. Fortune, what you me deny : 
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky. 
Through which Aurora shows her brighten- 
ing face ; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve; 
Let health my nerves and finer fibers brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave ; 
Qf fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me be- 
reave, 

Jame3 Thomson, 




^^ /y/^Cl^^n^ 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



547 



FAME. 

(From "Lycidas.") 

fAME is the spur that the clear spirit doth 
raise, 
(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred 
shears, 
And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling 
ears ; 
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 
Nor in the glistening foil. 
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. 

John Milton. 



FROM 



THE MASQUE OF 

COMUSr ^ 



/gNAN any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
^O* Breathe such divine enchanting ravish- 
ment? 
Sure something holy lodges in that breast, 
And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 



How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night, 
At every fall smoothing the raven down 
Of darkness till it smiled ! I have oft heard 
My mother Circe, with the Sirens three. 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiads, 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs, 
Who as they sung would take the prisoned 

soul 
And lap it in Elysium ; Scylla wept. 
And chid her barking waves into attention. 
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause ; 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense. 
And in sweet madness robbed it of itself; 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight. 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
1 never heard till now. 

* * * * * 
How charming is divine Philosophy ! 

Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 
But musical as is Apollo's lute. 
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets. 
Where no crude surfeit reigns. 

* * * -St * 

Mortals that would follow me. 
Love Virtue ; she alone is free ; 
She can teach you how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime ; 
Or if Virtue feeble were. 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 

John Milton. 



J?CA>«n Vf fttfi Intuit ikcpi h> Mr. 



CMtr^ 



Jft^ni^ C^ • ^^^ 







548 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



BEAUTY. 

(From '•Endymion," Book I.) 

THING of beauty is a joy forever; 
Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 

breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreath- 
ing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
Spite of despondence, of th' inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 
Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkened ways 
Made for our searching ; yes, in spite of all. 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the 

moon, 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 
With the green world they live in ; and clear 

rills 
That for themselves a cooling convert make 
'Gainst the hot season ; the midforest brake. 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose 

blooms ; 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or read; 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, - 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor merely do we feel these essences 
For one short hour : no, even as the trees 
Tliat whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories infinite. 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
Th^t, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er- 

cast. 
They always must be with us, or we die. 

John Keats. 



HOPE. 

(The Opening and Closing Lines of "The Tleasures of 
Hope."^ 

^T summer eve, when heaven's ethereal 
^jm. bow 

Spans with bright arch the glittering hills be- 
low. 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye. 
Whose sunbright sunimit mingles with the 
§k7? 



Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling 

near? 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath 

been. 
And every form, that Fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glow's divinely there. 

^Yh,2it potent spirit guides the raptured eye 
To pierce the shades of dim futurity ? 
Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly pow- 
er, 
The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour? 
Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man, 
Her dim horizon bounded to a span ; 
Or if she hold an image to the viow% 
'Tis Nature pictured too severely true. 

With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly 

light. 
That pours remotest rapture on the sight ; 
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way, 
That calls each slumbering passion into play. 
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band. 
On tiptoe, watching, start at thy command, 
And fly where'er the mandate bids them steer. 
To Pleasure's path, or Glory's bright career, 



Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be! 
The tears of Love were hopeless but for thee; 
If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, 
If that fain murmur be the last farewell, 
If Fate unite the faithful but to part, 
Why is their memory sacred to the heart ? 
Why does the brother of my childhood seem 
Restored awhile in every pleasing dream ? 
Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, 
By artless friendship blessed when life was 
new? 

Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of 

Time, 
Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. 
When all the sister planets have decayed. 
When wrapped in fire the realms of ether 

glow, 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 549 

And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world And light thy torch at Nature's funeral 

below, pile. 

Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, Thomas Campbell. 



iIj 



OF OBSCURITY. 

'HAT a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying, or be- 
ing envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies! It is, in my mind, a 
very delightful pastime for two good and agreeable friends to travel up and down 
together, in places where they are by nobody known, nor know anybody. It was 
the case of ^neas and his Achates, when they walked invisibly about the fields of Carthage ; 
Venus herself 

"A veil of thickened air around them cast, 
That none might know or see them as they passed." 
The common story of Demosthenes' confession, that he had taken great pleasure in hearing 
of a tanker- woman say as he passed, '• This is that Demosthenes," is wonderful ridiculous 
from so solid an orator. I myself have often met with that temptation to vanity, if it were 
any; but am so far from finding it any pleasure, that it only makes me run faster from the 
place, till I get, as it were, out of sight-shot. Democritus relates, and in such a manner as if 
he gloried in the good fortune and commodity of it, that when he came to Athens, nobody there 
did so much as take notice of him ; and Epicurus lived there very well, that is, lay hid many 
years in his gardens, so famous since that time, with his friend Metrodorus; after whose 
death, making in one of his letters a kind of commemoration of the happiness which they two 
had enjoyed together, he adds at last that he thought it no disparagement to those great 
felicities of their life that in the midst of the most talked of and talking country in the world, 
they had lived so long, not only without fame, but almost without being heard of; and yet, 
within a very few years afterwards, there were never two names of men more known, or more 
generally celebrated. If we engage into a large acquaintance and various familiarities, we 
set open our gates to the invaders of most of our time ; we expose our life to a quotidian ague 
of frigid impertinences, which would make a wise man tremble to think of. Now, as for 
being known by sight, and pointed at, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies in that; 
whatsoever it be, every mounteback has it more than the best doctors, and the hangman 
more than the Lord Chief Justice of a city. Every creature has it, both of nature and art, if 
it be any ways extraordinary. It was as often said, " This is that Bucephalus," or "This is 
that Incitatus," when they were led prancing through the streets, as, " This is that Alex- 
ander," or " This is that Domitian ; " and truly, for the latter, I take Incitatus to have been a 
much more honorable beast than his master, and more deserving the consulship than he the 
empire. 

I love and commend a true good fame, because it is the shadow of virtue ; not that it doth 
any good to the body which it accompanies, but it is an efiicacious shadow, and, like that of 
St. Peter, cures the diseases of others. The best kind of glory, no doubt, is that which is re- 
flected from honesty, such as was the glory of Cato and Aristides ; but it was harmful to them 
both, and is seldom beneficial to any man whilst he lives. What it is to him after his death, 
I cannot say, because I love not philosophy merely notional and conjectural; and no man 
who has made the experiment has been so kind as to come back to inform us. Upon the 
whole matter, I account a person who has a moderate mind and fortune, and lives in the con- 
versation of two or three agreeable friends, with little commerce in the world beside, who is 
esteemed well enough by his neighbors that know him, and is truly irreproachable by any- 
body ; and so, after a healthful quiet life, before the great inconveniences of old age, goes more 
34 



550 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



silently out of it than he came in (for I would not have him so much as cry in the exit) ; this 
innocent deceiver of the world, as Horace calls him, this muta persona^ I take to have been 
more happy in his part than the greatest actors that fill the stage with show and noise ; nay, 
even than Augustus himself, who asked with his last breath whether he had not played his 
farce very well. 

Abraham Cowley. 
o 



FOR PRAISE. 

(From "The Love of Fame.") 

'HAT will not men attempt for sacred 

praise ? 

The love of praise, howe'er concealed by art, 
Reigns more or less, and glows in every 

heart ; 
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure ; 
The modest shun it but to make it sure ; 
O'er globes and scepters, now on thrones it 

swells, 
Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells ; 
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head. 
And heaps the plain with mountains of the 

dead; 
Nor ends with life, but nods in sable plumes, 
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs. 
Edward Young. 



ADVICE TO POETS. 

(From " An Essay on Criticism.") 

N words as fashions, the same rule will hold, 
Alike fantastic, if too new or old ; 
Be not the first by whom the new are tried. 
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 
But most by numbers judge a poet's song; 
And smooth or rough with them is right or 

wrong ; 
In the bright Muse though thousand charms 

conspire, 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire, 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear. 
Not mend their minds ; as some to church re- 
pair. 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there ; 
These equal syllables alone require, 
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire, 
While expletives their feeble aid do join. 
And ten slow words oft creep in one dull line ; 
While they ring round the same unvaried 

chimes. 
With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 
Where'er you find " the cooling western 
breeze^" 



In the next line it "whispers through the trees;" 
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs 

creep," 
The reader's threatened, not in vain with 

" sleep." 
Then at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a 

thought, 
A needless Alexandrine ends the song. 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow 

length along. 
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, 

and know 
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly 

slow. 
And praise the easy vigor of a line 
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweet- 
ness join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not 

chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to 

dance. 
'Tis not enough; no harshness gives ofiense ; 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense ; 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows. 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers 

flows ; 
But when loud surgeslashthe sounding shore, 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the tor- 
rent roar ; 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to 

throw, 
The line too labors, and the words move slow; 
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along 

the main; 
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, 
And bid alternate passions fall and rise: 
While at each change, the son of Lybian Jove 
Now burns with glory, and then melts with 

love ; 
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, 
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow ; 
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 
And the world's victor stood subdued by 
;gound, Alexanper Pops, 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



561 



A COJVTEJVTED MIJ^D. 

WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile ; 

I joy not much in earthly joys ; 
I seek not state, I seek not style ; 

I am not fond of fancy's toys ; 
I rest so pleased with what I have, 
I wish no more, no more I crave. 



I quake not at the thunder's crack ; 

I tremble not at noise of war ; 
I swound not at the news of wrack ; 

I shrink not at a blazing star; 
I fear not loss, I hope not gain, 
I envy none, I none disdain. 

I see ambition never pleased ; 

I see some Tantals starved in store ; 
I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; 

I see e'en Midas gape for more ; 
I neither want, nor yet abound; 
Enough's a feast, content is crowned. 

I feign not friendship where I hate ; 
I fawn not on the great in show ; 
I prize, I praise a mean estate, 



Neither too lofty nor too low ; 
This, this is all my choice, ray cheer, 
A mind content, a conscience clear. 

Joshua Sylvester. 



PR OCRASTIJ^ATIOJ^. 

(From " Night Thoughts.") 

BE wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer ; 
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. 
Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
Year after year it steals, till all are fled. 
And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
If not so frequent would not this be strange? 
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still; 
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 
The palm, that all men are about to live, 
Forever on the brink of being born ; 
All pay themselves the compliment to think 
They one day shall not drivel; and their pride 
On this reversion takes up ready praise. 

Edward Young. 



PER CEPTIO.Y OF POETR Y. 

(From " Dauiel Deronda.'") 

PERHAPS poetry and romance are as plentiful as ever in the world, except for those 
phlegmatic natures, who, I suspect, would in any age have regarded them as a dull 
form of erroneous thinking. They exist very easily in the same room with the micro- 
scope, and even in railway carriages ; what banishes them is the vacuum in gentle- 
men and lady passengers. How should all the apparatus of heaven and earth, from the farth- 
est firmament to the tender bosom of the mother who nourished us, make poetry for a mind 
that has no movements of awe or tenderness, no sense of fellowship which thrills from the 
near to the distant, and back again from the distant to the near? 

Marian Evans Cross. 

(" George Eliot.") 



•I 



A TASTE FOR REABIKG. 

F I were to pray for a taste which should stand me in stead under every variety of cir- 
cumstances, and be a source of happiness and cheerfulness to me through life, and a 
shield against its ills, however things might go amiss, and the world frown upon me, it 
would be a taste for reading. I speak of it, of course, only as a worldly advantage, and 
not in the slightest degree as superseding or derogating from the higher oflfice and surer and 
stronger panoply of religious principles, but as a taste, an instrument, and a mode of pleasur- 
able gratification. Give a man this taste, and the means of gratifying it, and you can hardly 
fail of making a happy man, unless, indeed, you put into his hands a most perverse selection 
of books. You place him in contact with the best society in every period of history — with 
the wisest, the wittiest — with the tenderest, the bravest, and the purest characters that have 
adorned humanitv. You make him a denizen of all nations— a contemporary of all ages. The 



552 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



world has been created for him. It is hardly possible but the character should take a higher 
and better tone from the constant habit of associating in thought with a class of thinkers, to 
say the least of it, above the average of humanity. It is morally impossible but that the man- 
ners should take a tinge of good breeding and civilization from having constantly before one's 
eyes the way in which the best bred and best informed have talked and conducted them- 
selves in their intercourse with each other. There is a gentle but perfectly irresistible coer- 
cion in a habit of reading well directed, over the whole tenor of a man's character and con- 
duct, which is not the less effectual because it works insensibly, and because it is really the 
last thing he dreams of. It cannot, in short, be better summed up than in the words of the 
Latin poet : 

EmoUit mores, nee sinit esse feres. 

It civilizes the conduct of men, and suffers them not to remain barbarous. 

Sir John Herschel. 




Companionship with Books. 



FHOM AJf EPISTLE TO THE 
COUJVTESS OF CUMBERLAjYB. 

ME that of such a height hath built his 
mind, 
And reared the dwellng of his thoughts so 

strong. 
As neither fear nor hope can shake the 
frame 
Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
His settled peace or to disturb the same : 
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man sur- 
vey? 

And with how free an eye doth he look down 
Upon these lower regions of turmoil ; 
Where all the storms of passion mainly beat 
On flesh and blood; where honor, power, re- 
nown. 
Are only gay afiiictions, golden toil; 
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 
As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars 
But only as on stately robberies ; 
Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
Must be the right; the ill-succeeding mars 
The fairest and the best faced enterprise. 
Great Pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails ; 
Justice he sees, as if seduced, still 
Conspires with Power, whose cause must not 
be ill. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses, 
And is encompassed ; whilst as craft de- 
ceives, 



rOEMS OF REFLECTION. 553 

And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack These revohitions of disturbances 

man, Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 

And builds on blood, and rises by distress; Predominate; whose strong effects are 

And the inheritance of desolation leaves such 

To great expecting hopes; he looks thereon, As he must bear, being powerless to re- 

As from the shore or peace, with unwet eye, dress; 

And bears no venture in impiety. And that unless above himself he can 

* * * ^<- * Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be Samuel Daniel. 

The center of this world, about the which ' 



COJVTI.YUE KOT IJf AJTGER. 

(From " Euphues and His England.") 

HE sharp north-east wind doth never last three days ; tempests have but a short time ; 
and the more violent the thunder is, the less permanent it is. In the like manner, it 
falleth out with jars and crossings of friends, which, begun in a minute, are ended in a 
moment. Necessary it is that among friends there should be some over-thwarting; but 
to continue in anger, not convenient. The camel first troubleth the water before he drink ; 
the frankincense is burned before it smell ; friends are tried before they are trusted, lest, like 
the carbuncle, as though they had fire, they be found, being touched, to be without fire. Friend- 
ship should be like the wine which Homer, much commending, calleth Maroneum, whereof 
one pint being mingled with five quarts of water, yet it keepeth his old strength and virtue, 
not to be qualified by any discourtesy. Where salt doth grow, nothing else can breed ; where 
friendship is built, no offence can harbour. 

John Lyly. 




Ilj 



AGAIJYST BEADIJ^ESS TO TAKE OFFEJ^CE. 

E make ourselves more injuries than are offered us ; they many times pass for w^rongs 
in our own thoughts, that were never meant so by the heart of him that speak- 
eth. The apprehension of wrong hurts more than the sharpest part of the w^rong 
done. So, by falsely making ourselves patients of wrong, we become the true and 
first actors. It is not good, in matters of discourtesy, to dive into a man's mind, beyond his 
own comment ; nor to stir upon a doubtful indignity without it, unless we have proofs that 
carry weight and conviction with them. Words do sometimes fly from the tongue that the 
heart did neither hatch nor harbour. While we think to revenge an injury, we many times 
begin one ; and after that, repent our misconceptions. In things that may have a double 
sense, it is good to think the better was intended ; so shall we still both keep our friends and 
quietness. 

Owen Feltham. 
o 

PLAGIARISM. 

\^\ OTHING is sillier than this charge of plagiarism. There is no sixth commandment in 

1^1 art. The poet dare help himself wherever he lists, wherever he finds material suited 

J Zl. to his work. He may even appropriate entire columns with their carved capitals, if the 

temple he thus supports be a beautiful one. Goethe understood this very well, and so 

did Shakspere before him. 

Heinrich Heine. 




M^-^i^ Q>fjwhr^^' 



POEM^ OF iiEFLECTlOINr. 



555 



mE MIKB O'ERTHROWK. 

(From '' Hamlet," Act III., Scene 1.) 

§PHELIA. O, what a noble mind is here 
o'erthrovvn ! 
The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, 

tongue, sword : 
The expectancy and rose of the fair state. 
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form. 
The observ'd of all observers! quite, quite 

down! 
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 
That suck'd the honey of his music vows. 
Now see that noble and most sovereign rea- 
son. 
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and 

harsh ; 
That unmatch'd form and feature of blown 

youth, 
Blasted with ecstasy : O, wo is me ! 
To have seen what I have seen, see what I 
see! 

William Shakspere. 



mymijYd to me a kixgdom is. 

(Attributed by some authorities to Sir Edward Dyer.) 

J^ Y mind to me a kingdom is, 
jfSl Such present joys therein I find 
That it excels all other bliss 

That earth affords or grows by kind ; 
Though much I want which most would 

have. 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

No princely pomp, no wealthy store, 
Nor force to win the victory ; 

No wily wit to salve a sore, 
No shape to please a loving eye ; 

To none of these I yield as thrall. 

For why, my mind doth serve as all. 

I see how plenty surfeits oft. 
And hasty climbers soon do fall ; 



I see that those that are aloft. 

Mishap doth threaten most of all; 
These get with toil, they keep with 

fear; 
Such cares my mind could never bear. 

Content to live, this is ray stay; 

I seek no more than may suffice ; 
I press to bear no haughty sway ; 

Look, what I lack, my mind supplies; 
Lo! thus I triumph like a king. 
Content with what my mind doth bring. 

Some have too much, yet still do crave; 

I little have, and seek no more ; 
They are but poor, though much they 
have. 

And I am rich with little store ; 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I leave ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's loss ; 

I grudge not at another's gain ; 
No worldly waves my mind can toss ; 

My state at one doth still remain ; 
I fear no foe; I fawn no friend ; 
I loathe not life, nor dread my end. 

Some weigh their pleasure by their last, 
Their wisdom by their rage of will; 

Their treasure is their only trust ; 
A cloaked craft their store of skill ; 

But all the pleasure that I find 

Is to maintain a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 

My conscience clear my chief defense ; 
I neither seek by bribes to please. 

Nor by deceit to breed offence ; 
Thus do I live ; thus will I die ; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 

William Byrd, 



BOOKS. 

(Prom "The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table.") 

LIKE books. I was born and bred among them, and have the easy feeling, when I get 
among them, that a stable-boy has among horses. I don't think I undervalue them, 
either as companions or instructors. But I can't help remembering that the world's 
great men have not commonly been great scholars, nor its greatest scholars great men. 



556 POEMS OF REFLECTIOK. 

The Hebrew patriarchs had small libraries, if any, yet they represent to our imagination a 
very complete idea of manhood ; and I think, could we ask an Abraham to dine with us men 
of letters next Saturday, we should feel honored by his company. What I wanted to say 
about books is this : that there are times in which every active mind feels itself above any 
and all human books. 

" I think a man must have a good opinion of himself, sir," said the divinity student, " who 
should feel himself above Shakspere at any time." 

"My young friend," I replied, "the man who is never conscious of a state of feeling or in- 
tellectual effort entirely beyond expression by any form of words whatsoever, is a mere crea- 
ture of language. I can hardly believe there are any such men. Why, think for a moment 
of the power of music. The nerves that make us alive to it are spread out, as the Professor 
tells me, in the most sensitive region of the marrow, just where it is widening to run upward 
into the hemispheres. It has its seat in the region of sense rather than of thought; yet it 
produces a continuous, and, as it were, logical sequence of emotional aud intellectual changes; 
but how different from the chain of thought proper! How entirely beyond the reach of sym- 
bols ! Think of human passions as compared with all phrases ! Did you ever hear of a man's 
growing lean by reading of " Romeo and Juliet," or blowing his brains out because Des- 
demona was maligned? There are a good many symbols, too, that are more expressive than 
words. I remember a young wife who had to part with her husband for a time. She did not 
write a mournful poem ; indeed, she was a silent person, and perhaps hardly said a word 
about it; but she quietly turned of a deep orange color with jaundice. A great many people 
in this world have but one form of rhetoric for their profoundest experiences, namely, to 
waste away and die. When a man can read, his paroxysm of feeling is passing. When he 
can read, his thought is slacking its hold. You talk about reading Shakspere, using him as 
an expression for the highest intellect ; and you wonder that any common person should be so 
presumptuous as to suppose his thought can rise above the text which lies before him. But 
think a moment. A child's reading of Shakspere is one thing, and Coleridge or Schlegel's 
reading of him is another. The saturation point of each mind differs from that of every 
other. But I think it is as true for the small mind, which can only take up a little, as for the 
great one, which takes up much, that the suggested train of thought and feeling ought always 
to rise above, not the author, but the reader's mental version of the author, whoever he may 
be. 

"I think that most readers of Shakspere sometimes find themselves thrown into exalted 
mental conditions like those produced by music. Then they may drop the book, to pass at 
once into the region of thought without words. We may happen to be very dull folk, you 
and I, and probably are, unless there is some particular reason to suppose the contrary. But 
we get glimpses now and then of a sphere of spiritual possibilities, where we, dull as we are 
now, may sail in vast circles around the largest compass of earthly intelligences. 

" I confess there are times when I feel like the friend I mentioned to you some time ago ; I 
hate the very sight of a book. Sometimes it has become almost a physical necessity to talk 
out what is in the mind, before putting anything else in it. It is very bad to have thoughts 
and feelings, which ought to come out, strike in, as they say of some complaints which ought 
to show outwardly. 

" I always believed in life rather than in books. I suppose every day of earth, with its hun- 
dred thousand deaths, and something more of births, with its loves and hates, its triumphs 
and defeats, its pangs and blisses, has more of humanity in it than all the books that ever 
were written put together. I believe the flowers growing at this moment send up more fra- 
grance to heaven than was ever exhaled from all the essences ever distilled." 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOK. 



557 



THE LOST ELIXIR. 

(One drop of ruddy human blood puts more life into the 
veins of a poem than all tlie delusive aurum jyotahile that 
can be distilled out of the choicest library.— Lowell.) 

H, yes, that "drop of human blood!" 
We had it once, may be, 
When our young song's impetuous flood 

First poured its ecstasy ; 
But now the shrunk poetic vein 
Yields not that priceless drop again. 

We toil — as toiled we not of old ; 

Our patient hands distil 
The shining spheres of chemic gold 

With hard-won, fruitless skill ; 
But that red drop still seems to be 
Beyond our utmost alchemy. 

Perchance, but most in later age, 

Time's after-gift, a tear. 
Will strike a pathos on the page 

Beyond all art sincere ; 
But that " one drop of human blood" 
Has gone with life's first leaf and bud. 
Austin Dobson. 



THE SO^^GS THAT ABE 
JfOT JSUJVG. 

j^O not praise : a word is payment more 

mJ than meet for what is done ; 

Who shall paint the mote's glad raiment float- 
ing in the molten sun ? 

Nay, nor smile ; for blind is eyesight, ears 
may hear not, lips are dumb; 

From the silence, from the twilight, wordless 
but complete they come. 

Songs were born before the singer, like white 

souls that wait for birth. 
They abide the chosen bringer of their melody 

to earth. 



Deep the pain of our demerit ; strings so rude 

or rudely strung. 
Dull to every pleading spirit seeking speech, 

but sent unsung. 
Round our hearts with gentle breathing still 

the plaintive silence plays, 
But we brush away its wreathing filled with 

cares of common days. 

Ever thinking of the morrow, burdened down 
with needs and creeds. 

Once or twice, mayhap, in sorrow, we may 
hear the song that pleads. 

Once or twice, a dreaming poet sees the beau- 
ty as it flies ; 

But his vision — who shall know it ? who shall 
read it from his eyes ? 

Voiceless he ; his necromancy fails to cage the 
wondrous bird ; 

Lure and snare are vain when fancy flies like 
echo from a word. 

Only sometimes he may sing it, using speech 
as 'twere a bell — 

Not to read the song, but ring it, like the sea- 
tone from a shell ; 

Sometimes, too, it comes and lingers round 
the strings all still and mute, 

Till some lover's wandering fingers draw it 
living from the lute. 

Still, our best is but a vision which a lightning 

flash illumes, 
Just a gleam of life elysian flung across the 

voiceless glooms. 

Why should gleams perplex and move us? Ah, 

the soul must upward grow 
To the beauty far above us, and the songs no 

sense may know. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 



^yk £=<yi^yt:ce. ^,,%.<?t-^ •?>,_^^^ ^^^ f^y>€&<:^ 

3o ,,yf^-^ /cPdO, 



i 




^i^U^C^^Juy^ 



1>0EMS 0-^ MJ'LECTIOI^. 



659 



THi: POET'S MOVRKERS. 

(From '^ The Lay of the Last Minstrel," Canto V.) 

fALL it not vain ! they do not err 
Who say, that when a poet dies, 
Mute Nature mourns her worshiper,. 

And celebrates his obsequies : 
Who say tall cliflf and cavern lone 
For the departed bard make moan; 
That mountains weep in crystal rill; 
That flowers in tears of balm distil ; 
Through his loved groves that breezes sigh. 
And oaks, in deeper groan reply. 
And rivers teach their rushing wave 
To murmur dirges round his grave. 

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn. 
These things inanimate can mourn ; 
But that the stream, the wood, the gale 
Is vocal with the plaintive wail 
Of those who, else forgotten long. 
Lived in the poet's faithful song. 
And with the poet's parting breath, 
Whose memory feels a second death. 
The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot. 
That love, true love, should be forgot. 
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear 
Upon the gentle minstrel's bier ; 
The phantom knight, his glory fled. 
Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; 
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, 
And shrieks along the battle-plain ; 
The chief, whose antique crownlet long 
Still sparkled in the feudal song, 
Now, from the mountain's misty throne, 
Sees in the thanedom once his own. 
His ashes undistinguished lie. 
His place, his power, his memory die; 
His groans the lonely caverns fill. 
His tears of rage impel the rills ; 
All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung. 
Their name unknown, their praise unsung. 
Sir Walter Scott. 



Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood and 

birth 
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 
Thomas Carew. 



YAJ^ITAS V.AjYITATUM. 

fAME's but a hollow echo ; gold, pure clay; 
Honor, the darling of but one short day ; 
Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask skin; 
State, but a golden prison to live in 
And torture free-born minds; embroidered 

trains, 
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; 
And blood allied to greatness, is alone 
Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. 



THE WAY TO SIJVG. 

fHE birds must know. Who wisely 
sings 
Will sing as they. 
The common air has generous wings; 
Songs make their way. 

No messenger to run before. 

Devising plan ; 
No mention of that place, or hour. 

To any man. 
No waiting till some sound betrays 

A listening ear; 
No different voice — no new delays 

If steps draw near. 

"What bird is that? the song is good." 

And eager eyes 
Go peeping through the dusky wood 

In glad surprise. 

Then, late at night, when by his fire 

The traveler sits. 
Watching the flames go brighter, higher, 

The sweet song flits 
By snatches through his weary brain. 

To help him rest. 
When next he goes that road again. 

An empty nest 
On leafless bough will make him sigh : 

'• Ah me ! last spring, 
Just here I heard, in passing by, 

That rare bird sing." 

But while he sighs, remembering. 

How sweet the song. 
The little bird, on tireless wing. 

Is borne along 
In other air ; and other men, 

With weary feet, 
On other roads, the simple strain 

Are finding sweet. 

The birds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they ; 
The common air has generous wings ; 

Songs make their way. 

Helen Jackson. 



© 



LETTER- WRITING. 

HIS at least should be a rule through the letter-writing world — that no angry letter 
be posted till four-and-twenty hours shall have elapsed since it was written. We all 
know how absurd is that other rule, that of saying the alphabet when you are an- 
^f gry. Trash ! Sit down and write your letter ; write it with all the venom in your 
power; spit out your spleen at the fullest ; 'twill do you good. You think you have been in- 
jured; say all that you cansay with all your poisoned eloquence, and gratify yourself by reading 
it while your temper is still hot. Then put it in your desk ; and as a matter of course, burn 
it before breakfast the following morning. Believe me that you will then have a double 
gratification. 

A pleasant letter I hold to be the pleasantest thing that this world has to give. It should 
be good-humoured ; witty it may be, but with a gentle diluted wit. Concocted brilliancy 



\ 



560 POEMS OF REFLECTIOl^. 

CHARACTERISTICS OF MODERJ^ CRITICS. 
SHALL conclude with three maxims, which may serve both as characteristics to distin- 
guish a true modern critic from a pretender, and will be also of admirable use to those 
worthy spirits who engage in so useful and honorable an art. The first is, that criticism, 
contrary to all other faculties of the intellect, is ever held the truest and best when it is 
the very first result of the critic's mind : as fowlers reckon the first aim for the surest, and 
seldom fail of missing the mark if they stay not for a second. Secondly, the true critics 
are known by their talent of swarming about the noblest writers, to which they are carried 
merely by instinct, as a rat to the best cheese, or a wasp to the fairest fruit. So when the 
king is on horseback, he is sure to be the dirtiest person of the company ; and they that make 
their court best are such as bespatter him most. Lastly, a true critic, in the perusal of a book. 
Is like a dog at a feast, whose thoughts and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests fling 
away, and consequently is apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones. 

Jonathan Swift. ^v 
o • 

DESIRE OF KJYO WLEDGE. 

(From "The Life of Dr. Johnson.") 

R. JOHXSOX and I took a sculler at the Temple stairs, and set out for Greenwich. I 
asked him if he reall}^ thought a knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages an 
essential requisite to a good education. 

Johnson. "Most certainly, sir; for those who know them have a very great ad- 
vantage over those who do not. Nay, sir, it is wonderful what a difference learning makes 
upon people even in the common intercourse of life, which does not appear to be much con- 
nected with it." 

" And yet," said I, " people go through the world very well, and carry on the business of 
life to good advantage, without learning." 

Johnson. " Why, sir, that may be true in cases where learning cannot possibly be of any 
use; for instance, this boy rows us as well without learning as if he could sing the song of 
Orpheus to the Argonauts, who were the first sailors." He then called to the boy, " What 
would you give, my lad, to know about the Argonauts? " 
" Sir," said the boy, " I would give what I have." 

Johnson was much pleased with this answer, and we gave him a double fare. 
Dr. Johnson, then turning to me, 

"Sir," he said, " a desire of knowledge is a natural feeling of mankind; and every human 
being, whose mind is not debauched, will be willing to give all that he has, to get knowl- 
edge." James Boswell. 



rOEMS OF REFLECTIOIir. 



561 



will spoil it altogether. Not long, so that it he not tedious in the reading; nor brief, so that 
the delight suffice not to make itself felt. It should be written specially for the reader, and 
should apply altogether to him, and not altogether to any other. It should never flatter — 
flattery is always odious. But underneath the visible stream of pungent water there may be 
the slightest under-current of eulogy, so that it be not seen, but only understood. Censure it 
may contain freely, but censure which, in arraigning the conduct, implies no doubt as to the 
intellect. It should be legibly written, so that it may be read w^ith comfort; but no more 
than that. Caligraphy betokens caution, and if it be not light in hand, it is nothing. That it 
be fairly grammatical and not ill spelt, the writer owes to his schoolmaster, but this should 
come of habit, not of care. Then let its page be soiled by no business; one touch of utility 
will destroy it all. If you ask for examples, let it be as unlike Walpole as may be. If you can 
so write it that Lord Byron might have written it, you will not be very far from high ex- 
cellence. Anthony Trollope. 

o 



THE BOUJ^DARY. 

HO can sing us a song of sorrow 
That fitly shall echo a soul's despair ? 
Who from the kingdom of words may borrow 
A crown that is fitting for love to wear ? 

Who can render the marvelous story. 
As the dawn breaks over the world's fair rim? 
And who hath voice for the sunset's glory, 
Or the twilight solemn, and dusk and dim ? 

Though the chrism strange to his lips is given. 
Though never a discord his music mars, 
Who, in the face of the midnight heaven, 
Can sing a song to the eternal stars? 

Though speech should bloom like a garden- 
blossom. 
Royal, and tender, and glad, and sweet, 
'Tis shamed by the rose on a maiden's bosom — 
Aye, by the clover beneath her feet. 

Though the poet soar to heights supernal. 
Though his strain be never so grand and 

strong, 
Stin with silence supreme, eternal. 
Abides the essence of perfect song. 

Carlotta Perry. 



A BIRD'S SOJVG. 

fHE sinking sun had streaked the west 
With flecks of gold and crimson bars ; 
The wandering wind had sunk to rest, 

And in the cold east rose the stars. 
The evening chimes, like gladsome psalm, 
Pealed loud from out the old church tower ; 



And o'er the valley fell the calm 

Which broods upon the twilight hour. 

Loud through the eve-wrapt, listening vale, 

From humble bower of eglantine, 
A blackbird trilled his mellow tale. 

As if he sang through luscious wine. 
By cottage, grange, and hall around. 

Enraptured listeners lingered long : 
All heard the self-same fluting sound. 

While each interpreted the song. 

A Itttle child, scarce three years old, 

In wonder woke to visions dim 
Of crowns and dulcimers of gold. 

And surging strains of holy hymn. 
In that sweet land that's brighter far 

Than the shining shores in emerald seas. 
Where glows the lustrous evening star 

Above the fair Hesperides. 

A maiden at the moss-fringed well 

Beside her pitcher lingered long, 
Her soul enthralled with the strange spell 

Contained within that mystic song. 
For oh ! to her it ever sings 

Of love which all her being fills. 
And of the lad that twilight brings 

From over the dividing hills. 

To child, and youth, and maiden fair 

That bird made glad the closing day ; 
But dame and sire with silvered hair 

Drew sorrow from its roundelay. 
All filtered through the years of woe 

On their hearts fell the mellow strain, 
Waking the songs of long ago. 

And made them sigh for youth again ! 

Anonymous. 



562 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



THE SOJfG HE J^EVER WROTE. 

MIS thoughts were song, his life was sing- 
ing; 
Men's liearts like harps he held and smote, 
But in his heart went ever ringing, 
Ringing, the song he never wrote. 

Hovering, pausing, luring, fleeting, 

A farther blue, a brighter mote. 
The vanished sound of swift winds meeting, 

The opal swept beneath the boat. 

A gleam of wings forever flaming, 

Never folded in nest or cote, 
Secrets of joy, past name or naming. 

Measures of bliss pass dole or rote. 

Echoes of music, always flying. 

Always echo, never the note ; 
Pulses of life, past life, past dying — 

All these in the song he never wrote. 

Dead at last, and the people weeping. 
Turned from his grave with wringing 
hands — 

" What shall we do, now he lies sleeping. 
His sweet song silent in our lands? 

"Just as his voice grew clearer, stronger" — 
This was the song that keenest smote — 

"Oh death ! couldst thou not spare him long- 
er? 
Alas for the songs he never wrote !" 

Free at last, and his soul up-soaring. 
Planets and skies beneath his feet, 

Wonder and rapture all out-pouring. 
Eternity how simple, sweet ! 

Sorrow slain, and ever regretting. 
Love and love's labors left the same. 



Weariness over, suns without setting, 
Motion like thought on wings of flame : 

Higher the singer rose and higher, 
Heavens, in spaces, sank like bars: 

Great joy within him glowed like fire, 
He tossed his arms among the stars — 

" This is life, past life, past dying; 

I am I, and I live the life ; 
Shame on the thought of mortal crying ! 

Shame on this petty toil and strife ! 

Why did I halt and weakly tremble !" — 
Even in Heaven, the mem'ry smote — 
" Fool to be dumb, and to dissemble! 

wrote!" 
Helen Jackson. 

(•'H. H.") 




Helen Jackson. 



STUDIES. 
TUDIES serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is 
in privateness and retiring ; for ornament, is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judg- 
ment and disposition of business ; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of 
particulars, one by one ; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of af- 
fairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth ; to 
use them too much for ornament, is affectation ; to make judguient wholly by their rules, is 
the humor of a scholar; they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience— for natural 
abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study ; and studies themselves do give 
forth directious too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men con- 
temn studies, simple mea adnjire them, and wise men use them ; for they teach not their owii 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 563 

use; bat that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not to 
contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to lind talk and discourse, but 
to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few 
to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books are to be read only in parts ; others to be read, 
but not curiously ; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some 
books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others ; but that would be 
only In the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books ,• else distilled books are, 
like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready 
man, and writing an exact man : and, therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a 
great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit ; and if he read little, he 
had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. 

Sir Francis Bacon. 
o 

BOOKS. 

(From "The Essays ofElia.") 

DEDICATE no inconsiderable portion of my time to other people's thoughts. I dream 
away my life in others' speculations. I love to lose myself in other men's minds. When 
I am not walking, I am reading ; I cannot sit and think ; books think for me. 
I have no repugnances. Shaftesbury is not too genteel for me, nor Jonathan Wild too 
low. I can read anything which I call a book. There are things in that shape which I can- 
not allow for such. 

In this catalogue of books which are no books, biblia a-biblia, I reckon Court-Calendars, 
Directories, Pocket-Books, Draught-Boards, bound and lettered on the back, Scientific Trea- 
tises, Almanacs, Statutes at Large ; the works of Hume, Gibbon, Robertson, Beattie, Soame, 
Jenyns, and, generally, all those volumes which " no gentleman's library should be without,^' 
the works of Flavins Josephus, that learned Jew, and " Paley's Moral Philosophy." With 
these exceptions, I can read almost anything. I bless my stars for a taste so catholic, so un- 
excluding. 

I confess that it moves my spleen to see these things in books' clothing perched upon shelves, 
like false saints, usurpers of true shrines, intruders into the sanctuary, thrusting out the legiti- 
mate occupants. To reach down the well-bound semblance of a volume, and hope it some 
kind-hearted play-book; then, opening "what seem its leaves," to come bolt upon a wither- 
ing Population Essay. To expect a Steele, or a Farquhar, and find Adam Smith. To view a 
well-arranged assortment of block-headed encyclopaedias, Anglicanas or Metropolitans, set 
out in array of Russia or morocco, when a tithe of that good leather would comfortably re- 
clothe my shivering folios ; would renovate Paracelsus himself, and enable old Raymond Lully 
to look like himself again in the world. I never see these impostors, but I long to strip them, 
to warm my ragged veterans in their spoils. 

To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume. Magnificence comes 
after. This, when it can be affbrded, is not to be lavished upon all kinds of books indiscrim- 
ately. 1 would not dress a set of magazines, for instance, in full suit. The dishabille, or half- 
binding, with Russia backs ever, is our costume. A Shakspere, or a Milton, unless the first 
editions, it were mere foppery to trick out in gay apparel. The possession of them confers no 
distinction. The exterior of them, the things themselves being so common, strange to say, 
raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of property in the owner. " Thompson's Sea- 
sons," again, looks best, I maintain it, a little torn, and dog's-eared. How beautiful to a 
genuine lover of reading are the sullied leaves, and worn-out appearance; nay, the very odor, 
beyond Russia, if we would not forget kind feelings in fastidiousness, of an old " Circulating 
Library," " Tpm Jones/' or " Vicar of Wakefield !" How they speak of tbe thousand thumbs 



5G4 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



that have turned over their pages with delight ! Of the lone seamstress, whom they may 
have cheered, milliner, or hard-working mantua-maker, after her long day's needle-toil, run- 
ning far into midnight, when she has snatched an hour, ill spared from sleep, to steep her 
cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spilling out their enchanting contents! Who would have 
them a whit less soiled? What better condition could we desire to see them in? 

Shall I bethought fantastical if I confess that the names of some of our poets sound sweet- 
er, and have a finer relish to the ear, to mine, at least, than that of Milton or Shakspere ? It 
may be that the latter are more staled and rung upon in common discourse. The sweetest 
names, and which carry a perfume in the mention, are. Kit Marlow, Drayton, Drummond of 
Hawthornden, and Cowley. 

Much depends upon when and where you read a book. In the five or six impatient minutes, 
before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the "Faery Queen" for a 
stop-gap, or a volume of Bishop Andrews' sermons ? 

Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him. 
But he brings his music, to which, who listens, had need bring docile thoughts, and purged ears. 

Winter evenings, the world shut out, with less of ceremony the gentle Shakspere enters. 
At such a season, "The Tempest," or his own " Winter's Tale." 

These two poets you cannot avoid reading aloud, to yourself, or, as it chances, to some 
single person listening. More than one, and it degenerates into an audience. 

Books of quick interest, that hurry on for incidents, are for the eye to glide over only. It 
will not do to read them out. I could never listen to even the better kind of modern novel 
without extreme irksomeness. Charles Lamb. 



WHAT MIGHT BE DO.YE. 

WHAT might be done if men were wise. 
What glorious deeds, my suffering 
brother, 

Would they unite 
In love and right, 
And cease their scorn of one another ! 

Oppression's heart might be imbued 
With kindling drops of loving-kindness, 

And knowledge pour 

From shore to shore, 
Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 

All slavery, warfare, lies and wrongs, 
All vice and crime might die together ; 

And wine and corn. 

To each man born. 
Be free as warmth in summer weather. 

The meanest wretch that ever trod, 
The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow. 

Might stand erect 

In self-respect, 
And share the teeming world to-morrow. 

What might be done ? This might be done. 
And more thdn this, my suffering brother ; 
More than the tongue 




Charles Laaie. 

Ever said or sung, 
If men were wise and loved each other. 
Chakles Mackay, 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 565 

OH I WHY SHO TILL THE SPIRIT That wither away, to let others succeed ; 

OF MORT IL BE PROUD? So the multitude comes, even those we be- 

(Well-known as a favorite poem of Fresideut Lincoln.) m ,' ,-, i-, ,-,,-, n, -, , i -, 

To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

§11! why should the spirit of mortal be 

proud ? For we are the same that our fathers have 
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying been, 

cloud, We see the same sights that our fathers have 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, seen ; 

He passes from life to his rest in the grave. We drink the same stream, and we feel the 

same sun 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall And run the same course that our fathers have 

fade, run. 

Be scattered around, and together be laid ; 

And the young, and the old, and the low and rm_ x-. i ^ ^^ • ■. • ^ ..i_ 

theh^ffh thoughts we are thinking our fathers 

ShaU moulder to dust, and together shall lie. „ "J^^J^ *^^^^' ^ . ,. 

' ° From the death we are shrinking our fathers 

The infant a mother attended and loved, would shrink, 

The mother that infant's aifection who To the life we are clinging our fathers would 

proved, cling. 

The husband that infant and mother w^ho But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the 

blessed, wing. 

Each, all are away to their dwelling of rest. 

, , ^ They loved, but the storv v*- e cannot unfold, 

Ihe maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in .j.^^ scorned, but the h^art of the haughty is 

whose eye ^^^^ . 

Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are ^hey grieved, but no voice from their slum- 

^ ' bers may come ; 

And the memory of those that beloved her They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is 

and praised dumb. 

Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the scepter hath They died ; aye, they died ; and we, things 

borne that are now. 

The brow of the priest that the miter hath '^^^^ walk on the turf that lies over their 

worn, brow, 

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, 

brave Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the road. 

grave. 

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap, ^ea! hope and despondency, pleasure and 
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats to pain, 

the steep "^^^ mingled together like sunshine and rain; 

The beggar, who wandered in search of his ^^^ ^^® ^^^^^ ^"^^ ^^^ t^^^' ^^^^ ^he song and 

bread, the dirge 

Have faded away like the grass that we tread, ^till follow each other, like surge upon surge. 

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of '^is the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a 

heaven, breath. 

The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven, ^^'^m the blossom of health to the paleness 
The wise and the foolish, the guiltv and just, ^^ death. 

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^'^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^i^^ ^^^^ the 

shroud, 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
weed, WiLLUM Ivxox. 

35 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 

THE SOJfG AKB THE SIJ^'GEB. 
*0 "sing the praise of God," that you will find, if you can interpret old words, and see 
what new things they mean, was always, and will always be, the business of the sing- 
er. He who forsakes that business, and, wasting our divinest gifts, sings the praises 
^ of chaos, what shall we say of him? David, king of Judah, a soul inspired by divine 
music and much other heroism, was wont to pour himself in song ; he, with seer's eyes and 
heart, discerned the God-like amid the human ; struck tones that were the echo of the sphere- 
harmonies, and are still felt to be such. Reader, art thou one of a thousand, able still to read a 
Psalm of David, and catch some echo of it through the old, dim centuries ; feeling far off, in 
thine own heart, what it was once to other hearts made as thine? To sing it attempt not, 
for it is impossible in this late time ; only know that it once was sung. Then go to the opera, 
and hear, with unspeakable reflections, what things men now sing! Thomas Carlyle. 




i 



"Tired of play ! tired of play! 

What hast thou done this live-long day?" 



6>JV THE PICTURE OF ''A CHILD TIRED OF PLAY." 



fl^IRED of play ! tired of play ! 
F What hast thou done this live-long 

day? 
The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
The doves have flown to the sheltering 

eaves. 
And the nests are dark witti the drooping 

leaves \ 



Twilight gathers, and day is done ; 
How hast thou spent it, restless one ? 

Playing? but what hast thou done beside, 
To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
What kind word to thy playmate spoken? 
Whom hast thou pitied and whom forgiven ' 
Hqw wUU thjr faults bag dut^ striven? 



rOEMS OF REFLECTION. 



567 



What hast thou learned by field and hill, 
By greenwood path, and singing rill ? 

There will come an eve to a longer day, 
That will find thee tired, but not of play ; 
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now. 
With drooping limbs and aching brow. 
And wish the shadows would faster creep. 
And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
Well were it then if thine aching brow 
Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 
Well for thee, if thy lip could tell 
A tale like this of a day spent well! 
If thine open hand hath relieved distress, 
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness, 
If thou hast forgiven the sore offense, 
And humbled thy heart with penitence. 
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee 
With her holy meanings eloquently. 
If every creature hath won thy love, 
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove, 
If never a sad, low-spoken word 
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard? 
Then, when the night steals on, as now. 
It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 
And with joy and peace at the thought of rest. 
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



CATO'S SOLILOQUY OJV THE IM- 
MORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 

IT must be so : Plato, thou reasonest well ; 

i Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond 
desire. 

This longing after immortality ? 

Or whence this secret dread and inward hor- 
ror 

Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul 

Back on herself and startles at destruction? 

'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us, 

'Tis Heaven Itself that points out an here- 
after. 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 

Through what variety of untried being. 

Through what new scenes and changes must 
we pass? 

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before 
me ; 

But shadows, clouds and di^rkness rest upon 
it. 




Joseph Addison. 

Here will I hold! If there's a Power above 

us. 
And that there is all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works, he must delight in 

Virtue, 
And that which he delights in must be hap- 
py; 
But when, or where? This world was made 

for Caesar. 
I'm weary of conjectures; this must end 

them. 

[Laying his hand on his sword. 
Thus am I doubly armed; my death and 

life. 
My bane and antidote are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to an end ; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; 
But thou Shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt, amid the war of elements. 
The wreck of matter, and the crash of 

worlds,: 

Joseph Adpisqn, 



568 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 

AMEBIC AJ^ EJ^GLISH. 

mR. LOWELL, the greatest and finest realist who ever wrought in Terse, showed us 
that Elizabeth was still Queen where he heard Yankee farmers talk; and without 
asking that our novelists of widely scattered centres shall each seek to write in his 
local dialect, we are glad, as we say, of every tint any of them gets from the par- 
lance he hears ; it is much better than the tint he will get from the parlance he reads. One 
need not invite slang into the company of its betters, though perhaps slang has been drop- 
ping its " s" and becoming language ever since the world began, and is certainly sometimes de- 
lightful and forcible beyond the reach of the dictionary. We would not have any one go 
about for new words, but if one of them came aptly not to reject its help. For our novelists 
to try to write Americanly, from any motive, would be a dismal error, but, being born Amer- 
icans, we would have them use " Americanisms" whenever these serve their turn; and when 
their characters speak we should like to hear them speak true American, with all the varying 
Tennesseean, Philadelphian, Bostonian, and l!s'ew York accents. If we bother ourselves to 
write what the critics imagine to be " English," we shall be priggish and artificial, and still 
more so if they make our Americans talk " English." There is also this serious disadvan- 
tage about " English," that if we wrote the best " English " In the world, probably the 
English themselves would not know it, or, if they did, certainly would not own it. It has 
always been supposed by grammarians and purists that a language can be kept as they find 
it; but languages, while they live, are perpetually changing. God apparently meant them 
for the common people — whom Tiincoln believed God liked because He had made so many of 
them — and the common people Avill use them freely as they use other gifts of God. On their 
lips our Continental English will differ more and more from the insular English, and we be- 
lieve that this is not deplorable, but desirable. 

William Dea^^ Ho^atells. 



llJ 



APHORISMS AXB COMPARISOJ^S. 

'E have just religion enough to make us hate^ but not enough to make us love one an- 
other. 

When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on the good side or cir- 
cumstances of it ; when it is obtained, our minds run only on the bad ones. 

When a true genius appeareth in the world, you' may know him by this infallible sign, 
that the dunces are all in confederacy against him. 

lam apt to think that, in the day of judgment, there will be small allowance given to the 
wise for their want of morals, or to the ignorant for their want of faith, because both are 
without excuse. This renders the advantages equal of ignorance and knowledge. But some 
scruples in the wise, and some vices in the ignorant, will perhaps be forgiven upon the strength 
of temptation to each. 

It is in disputes as in armies, where the weaker side setteth up false lights, and maketh a 
great noise, that the enemy may believe them to be more numerous and strong than they real- 
ly are. 

I have known some men possessed of good qualities, which were very serviceable to others, 
but useless to themselves ; like a sun-dial on the front of a house, to inform the neighbors and 
passengers, but not the owner within. 

The stoical scheme of supplying our wants by lopping off" our desires, is like cutting off our 
feet when we want shoes.. 

The reason why so few marriages are happy, is because young ladies spend their time in 
making nets, not in making cages. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 669 

Censure is the tax a man payeth to the public for being eminent. 

No wise man ever wished to be younger. 

An idle reason lessons the weight of the good ones you gave before. 

Complaint is the largest tribute Heaven receives, and the sincerest part of our devotion. 

The common fluency of speech in many men and most women is owing to a scarcity ot 
matter and scarcity of words : for whoever is a master of language, and hath a mind full of 
ideas, will be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both; whereas common speak- 
ers have only one set of ideas, and one set of words to clothe them in, and these are always 
ready at the mouth. So people come faster out of a church when it is almost empty, than 
when a crowd is at the door. 

Every man desireth to live long, but no man would be old. 

If books and laws continue to increase as they have done for fifty years past, I am in some 
concern for future ages, how any man will be learned, or any man a lawyer. 

If a man maketh me keep my distance, the comfort is, he keepeth his at the same time. 

Very few men, properly speaking, live at present, but are providing to live another time. 

JOXATHAN S^^IFT. 

o , 



GOLD. 

(From ''MissKilmansegg and her Precious Leg.") 

tOLD! Gold! Gold! Geld! 
Bright and yellow, hard and cold, 
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled; 
Heavy to get, and light to hold ; 
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold, 
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled; 
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old 
To the very verge of the churchyard mould ; 
Price of many a crime untold ; 
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! 
Good or bad, a thousand-fold ! 

How widely its agencies vary ! 
To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless. 
As even its minted coins express ! 
Now stamped with the image of Good Queen 
Bess, 

And now of a Bloody Mary ! 

Thomas Hood. 



THE REWARD. 
i)^/'HO, looking backward from his man- 



hood's prime. 
Sees not the specter of his misspent time ? 

And, through the shade 
Of funeral cypress planted thick behind. 
Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind 

From his beloved dead ? 

Who bears no trace of passion's evil force ? 
Who shuns thy stings, O terrible Remorse? 
Who does not cast 



On the thronged pages of his memory's book. 
At times, a sad and half-reluctant look, 
Regretful of the past '? 

Alas ! the evil which we fain would shun 
We do, and leave the wished-for good undone; 

Our strength to-day 
Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall; 
Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all 

Are we alway. 

Yet who, thus looking backward o'er his 

years. 
Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears, 

If he hath been 
Permitted, weak and sinful as he Avas, 
To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause, 

His fellow-men ? 

If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in 
A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin ; 

If he hath lent 
Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need, 
Over the suffering, mindless of his creed 

Or home, hath bent, 

He has not lived in vain ; and while he gives 
The praise to Him, in whom he moves and 
lives, 

With thankful heart, 
He gazes backward, and with hope before, 
Knowing that from his works he nevermore 

Can henceforth part. 

John Gkeenleaf Whittiee. 



570 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



<3/^e^ £^^t^ ^, 









c««^' 



^^^■^z^^&n^ 



<U,c^ 



X^ 



f 



ty^^>^^ ^^^wo«^ £.^^j/^^ 



.t>€.e^ £/'>'^ 



1/ ca^tji^ 



^^>^ '^^^ c />/dy ^' <j^ I 






FIRE AJfB STREJ^GTH, 

(From "Culture and Anarchy.") 

T is not at this moment true, what the majority of people tell us, that the world wants 
' fire and strength more than sweetness and light, and that things are for the most part 
to be settled first and understood afterwards. How much of our present perplexities and 
confusion this untrue notion has caused already, and is tending still to perpetuate ! There- 
fore the true business of the friends of culture now is, to dissipate this false notion, to spread 



i 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



571 



the belief in right reason and a Arm intelligible law of things, and to get men to try, in pre- 
ference to staunchly acting with imperfect knowledge, to obtain some sounder basis of knowl- 
edge on which to act. This is what the friends and lovers of culture have to do, however the 
believers in action may grow impatient with us for saying so, and may insist on our lending a 
hand to their practical operations and showing a commendable interest in them. 

Matthew Arnold. 


THE QUE STIOJ^ ILLUSTRATED 
BY J^ATUBE. 

(From "Bitter-Sweet.") 
Ruth. 

Tj OOK where you step, or you'll stumble! 
Mi Care for your coat, or you'll crock it! 
Down with your crown, man! Be humble; 

Put your head into your pocket. 

Else something or other will knock it. 
Don't hit that jar of cucumbers 

Standing on the broad stair! 
They have not waked from their slumbers 

Since they stood there. 

David. 
Yet they have lived in a constant jar; 
What remarkable sleepers they are ! 

Ruth. 
Turn to the left, shun the wall ; 
One more step ; that is all ! 
Now we are safe on the ground, 
I will show you around. 
Sixteen baiTcls of cider, 

Ripening all in a row ; 
Open the vent-channels wider! 

See the froth, drifted like snow, 

Blown by the tempest below ! 

Those delectable juices 

Flowed through the sinuous sluices 

Of sweet springs under the orchard ; 
Climbed into fountains that chained them ; 
Dripped into cups that retained them. 
And swelled till they dropped, and we gained 
them. 

Then they were gathered and tortured 
By passage from hopper to vat. 
And fell, every apple crushed flat. 
Ah! how the bees gathered around them! 
And how delicious they found them ! 
Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover, 
Was plaited, and smoothly turned over, 
Weaving a neatly ribbed basket ; 
And, as they built up the casket, 
In went the pulp by the scoop-full. 
Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full, 




JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 

Filling the half of a puncheon 

While the men swallowed their luncheon. 

Pure grew the stream with the stress 

Of the lever and screw. 
Till the last drops from the press 

Were as bright as the dew. 
There w^ere these juices spilled ; 
There were these barrels filled ; 
Sixteen barrels of cider. 

Ripening all in a row ! 
Open the vent-channels wider! 

See the froth, drifted like snow, 

Blown by the tempest below ! 

David. 
Hearts, like apples, are hard and sour, 
Till crushed by Pain's resistless power ; 
And yield their juices rich and bland 
To none but Sorrow's heavy hand. 
The purest streams of human love 

Flow naturally never. 
But gush by pressure from above. 

With God's hand on the lever; . 
The first are turbidest and meanest, 
The last are sweetest and serenest. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
EACH AJfD ALL. 



Vp ITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloak- 

ii£ ed clown 

Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 
The heifer that lows in the upland farm, 
Far-heard, lows not thy ear to charm ; 



All are needed by each one ; 
Nothing is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 
Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 




For I did not bring home the river and sky ; 
He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye." 



The sexton, tolling his bell at noon. 
Deems not that great Napoleon 
Stops his horse, and lists ^^ ith delight. 
Whilst his files sweep round } on Alpine 

height ; 

Nor knowest thou what argument 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent. 



I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 
He sings the song, but it pleases not now, 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOIC. 



673 



For I did not bring home the river and sky ; 
He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore ; 
The bubbles of the latest wave 
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, 
And the bellowing of the savage sea 
Greeted their safe escape to me. 
I wiped away the weeds and foam, 
I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 
But the poor unsightly, noisome things 
Had left their beauty on the shore, 
With the sun, and the sand, and the wild up- 
roar. 

The lover watched his graceful maid, 

As 'mid the virgin train she strayed ; 

Nor knew her beauty's best attire 

Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 

At last she came to his hermitage, 

liike the bird from the woodlands to the cage; 

The gay enchantment was undone — 

A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, " I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat — 
I leave it behind with the games of youth." 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 

Running over the club-moss burs; 
I inhaled the violet's breath; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 
Pine-cones, acorns lay on the ground; 
Over me soared the eternal sky, 
Full of light and of deity ; 
Again I saw, again I heard, 
The rolling river, the morning bird; 
Beauty through my senses stole — 
I yielded myself to the perfect w^hole. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

TEE SOUL'S ERRAjYD. 

to. Soul, the body's guest. 
Upon a thankless errand ; 
Fear not to touch the best ; 

The truth shall be thy warrant. 
Go, since I needs must die. 
And give the world the lie. 

Say to the Court it glows 
And shines like rotten wood ; 

Say to the Church it shows 
What's good, and does no good. 

If Church and Court reply. 

Then give them both the lie. 



Tell Potentates they live 
Acting by others' action ; 

Not loved unless they give. 
Not strong but by affection. 

If Potentates reply, 

Give Potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition, 
That manage the Estate, 

Their purpose is ambition. 
Their practice only hate. 

And if they once reply, ■ 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell them that brave it most. 
They beg for more by spending ; 

Who in their greatest cost 
Like nothing but commending. 

And if they make reply. 

Then tell them all they lie. 

Tell Zeal it wants devotion ; 

Tell Love it is but lust ; 
Tell Time it is but motion ; 

Tell Flesh it is but dust. 
And wish them not reply. 
For thou must give the lie. 

Tell Age it daily wasteth ; 

Tell Honor how it alters ; 
Tell Beauty how she blasteth; 

Tell Favor how it falters. 
And as they shall reply, 
Give every one the lie. 

Tell wit how much it wrangles 
In tickle points of niceness ; 

Tell Wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over-wiseness. 

And when they do reply 

Straight give them both the lie. 

Tell Physic of her boldness ; 

Tell Skill it is pretension ; 
Tell charity of coldness ; 

Tell Law it is contention. 
And as they do reply. 
So give them all the lie. 

Tell Fortune of her blindness ; 

Tell Nature of decay ; 
Tell Friendship of unkindness; 

Tell Justice of delay. 
And if they will reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 



574 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 



Tell Arts they have no soundness, 

But vary by esteeming; 
Tell Schools they want profoundness, 

And stand so much on seeming. 
If Arts and Schools reply. 
Give Arts and Schools the lie. 

Tell Faith it's fled the city; 

Tell how the country erreth; 
Tell Manhood shakes off pity ; 

Tell Virtue least pref erreth. 
And if they do reply, 

Spare not to give the lie. 

So when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing. 
Because to give the lie 

Deserves no less than stabbing. 
Stab at thee who that will, 

No stab the soul can kill. 

{Attributed to) Sir Walter Raleigh. 



THi: HEREAFTER. 

XFrom "An Essay on Man.") 



with trembling pin- 
Death ; and God 



MOPE humbly then 
ions soar; 
Wait the great teacher, 

adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know. 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; 
Man never is, but always to be blessed ; 
The soul, uneasy, and confined from home. 
Rests and expatiates on a life to come. 
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk or Milky Way, 
Yet simple nature to his hope has given. 
Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler 

heaven ; 
Some safer world in depth of wood embraced. 
Some happier island in the watery waste. 
Where slaves once more their native land be- 
hold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst 

gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire. 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire, 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

Alexander Pope. 



for 



LITTLE AT FIRST, BUT GREAT 
AT LAST. 

A TRAVELER through a dusty road 
Strewed acorns on the lea. 
And one took root, and sprouted up, 

And grew into a tree. 
Love sought its shade at evening time, 

To breathe its early vows. 
And Age was pleased, at heat of noon. 

To bask beneath its boughs ; 
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs. 

The birds sweet music bore ; 
It stood a glory in its place, 

A blessing evermore. 

A little spring had lost its way 

Amid the grass and fern ; 
A passing stranger scooped a well 

Where weary men might turn ; 
He walled it in, and hung with care 

A ladle at the brink ; 
He thought not of the deed he did. 

But judged that toil might drink ; 
He passed again, and lo ! the well, 

By summers never dried. 
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, 

And saved a life beside ! 

A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 

'Twas old, and yet 'twas new ; 
A simple fancy of the brain. 

Yet strong in being true; 
It shone upon a genial mind. 

And lo ! its light became 
A lamp of life, a beacon ray, 

A monitory flame! 
The thought was small, its issue great; 

A watch-fire on the hill. 
It shed its radiance far adown, 

And cheers the valley still. 

A nameless man, amid the crowd 

That thronged the daily mart, 
Let fall a word of Hope and Love, 

Unstudied, from the heart ; 
A whisper, on the tumult thrown, 

A transitory breath. 
It raised a brother from the dust, 

It saved a soul from death. 
O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! 

O thought at random cast! 
Ye were but little at the first. 

But mighty at the last. 

Charles Mackay. 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOlSr. 



676 




SWEETJ^ESS AKB LIGHT. 

(From "Culture and Anarchy.") 

'HE Greek wordsy^y?a,a finely tempered nature, gives exactly the notion of perfection 
as culture brings us to conceive it; a harmonious perfection, a perfection in which the 
characters of beauty and intelligence are both present, which unites "the two noblest 
of things," as Swift, who of one of the two, at any rate, had himself all too little, 
most happily calls them in his " Battle of the Books," " the two noblest of things, sweetness 
and light." The su^yiy'?, T say, is the man who tends towards sweetness and light; the ^ctot;'?, 
on the other hand, is our Philistine. The immense spiritual significance of the Greeks is due 
to their having been inspired with this central and happy idea of the essential character of 
human perfection ; and Mr. Bright's misconception of culture, as a smattering of Greek and 
Latin, comes itself, after all, from this wonderful significance of the Greeks having aifected 
the very machinery of our education, and is in itself a kind of homage to it. 

Matthew Arnold. 



576 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOJ^r. 



SOMEBODY. 

§OMEBODY thinks the world all wrong 
And never has a word in its praise ; 
Somebody sings the whole day long, 
Likes the world and all Its ways ; 
Somebody says it's a queer old place, 
Where none of the people do as they 
should ; 
Then somebody thinks it fidl of grace 
And wouldn't change the folks if he could. 

Somebody calls it cruel and cold, 

Full of sin and sorrow and pain. 
Where life is but a search for gold. 

And souls are lost in selfish gain. 
Somebody merrily laughs — and cries, 

" Hurrah for such a dear old earth ! 
Success shall crown the man who tries 

To make his mark by honest worth." 

Somebody groans and shakes his head, 

Calls his lot a wretched one ; 
Somebody wishes that he were dead, 

'Cause somebody else has all the fun. 
But still I fancy you're sure to find, 

Tho' good or evil, or pain or care. 
One certain fact — so make up your mind 

That — Somebody always gets his share. 

AXOXYMOUS. 



EVERY DAY. 

§H, trifling task so often done, 
Yet ever to be done anew ; 
Oh, cares which come with every sun. 

Morn after morn, the long years through! 
We shrink beneath their paltry sway — 
The irksome calls of every day. 

The restless sense of wasted power. 
The tiresome round of little things, 

Are hard to bear, as hour by hour 
Its tedious iteration brings; 

Who shall evade or who delay 

The small demands of every day? 

The boulder in the torrent's course 
By tide and tempest lashed in vain. 

Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force, 
And yields its substance grain by grain ; 

So crumble strongest lives away 

Beneath the wear of every day. 

Who finds the lion in his lair. 
Who tracks the tiger for his life, 



May wound them ere they are aware, 
Or conquer them in desperate strife. 
Yet powerless he to scathe or slay 
The vexing gnats of every day. 

The steady strain that never stops. 
Is mightier than the fiercest shock ; 

The constant fall of water-drops 
Will groove the adamantine rock ; 

We feel our noblest powers decay 

In feeble wars with every day. 

We rise to meet a heavy blow — 
Our souls a sudden bravery fills — 

But we endure not always so 
The drop-by-drop of little ills ; 

We still deplore and still obey 

The hard behests of every day. 

The heart which boldly faces death 
Upon the battle-field, and dares 

Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath 
The needle-points of fret and cares ; 

The stoutest spirits they dismay — 

The tiny stings of every day. 

And even saints of holy fames. 
Whose souls by faith have overcome, 

Who Avore amid the cruel flame 
The molten crown of martyrdom, 

Bore not without complaint alway 

The petty pains of every day. 

Ah, more than martyr's aureole, 
And more than hero's heart of fire, 

We need the humble strength of soul 
Which daily toils and ills require — 

Sweet Patience ! grant us, if you may. 

An added grace for every day ! 

Anonymous. 



WHO BIDES HIS TIME. 

gh^CHO bides his time, day by day 
VJH/ Faces defeat, full patiently. 
And lifts a mirthful roundelay. 

However poor his fortunes be — 
He will not fail in any qualm 

Of poverty — the paltry dime, 
It will grow golden in his paim, 
Who bides his time. 

Who bides his time, he tastes the sweet 
Of honey in the saltest tear ; 

And, though he fares with slowest feet, 
Joy runs to meet him drawing near ; 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



577 



The birds are heralds of his cause, 
And, like a never-ending rhyme. 
The roadside blooms in his applause, 
Who bides his time. 

Who bides his time, and fevers not 

In the hot race that none achieves, 
Shall wear cool wreathen laurel, wrought 

With crimson berries in the leaves ; 
And he shall reign a goodly king. 

And sway his hand o'er every clime. 
With peace writ on his signet ring. 
Who bides his time. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 



'' WHO CAJf JUDGE A MAjY 

FROM MA.YjYERS?" 
Wi^fB^O can judge a man from man- 
W ners ? 

Who shall know him by his dress ? 
Paupers may be fit for princes, 

Princes fit for something less. 
Crumpled shirt and dirty jacket 

May beclothe the golden ore 
Of the deepest thought and feeling — 

Satin vest could do no more. 
There are springs of crystal nectar 

Even swelling out of stone ; 
There are purple buds and golden. 

Hidden, crushed and overgrown. 
God, who counts by souls, not dresses. 

Loves and prospers you and me ; 
While he values thrones the highest 

But as pebbles on the sea. 



Man appraised above his fellows. 

Oft forgets his fellows, then ; 
Masters — rulers — lords, remember 

That your meanest hands are men ! 
Men of labor, men of feeling, 

Men by thought and men by fame. 
Claiming equal rights to sunshine 

In a man's ennobling name. 
There are foam-embroidered oceans. 

There are little wood-clad rills, 
There are feeble inch-high saplings. 

There are cedars on the hills. 
God who counts by souls, not stations. 

Loves and prospers you and me. 
For to him all vain distinctions 

Are as pebbles on the sea. 

Toiling hands alone are builders 

Of a nation's wealth and fame; 
Titled laziness is pensioned. 

Fed and fattened on the same ; 
By the sweat of others' foreheads 

Living only to rejoice, 
While the poor man's outraged freedom 

Vainly lifteth to its voice. 
Truth and justice are eternal. 

Born with loveliness and light ; 
Secret wrongs shall never prosper 

While there is a sunny height. 
God, whose heard voice is singing 

Boundless love to you and me, 
Sinks oppositions with its titles, 

As the pebbles on the sea. 

Anonymous. 






SIMPLICITY. 
T is far more difficult to be simple than to be complicated ; far more difficult to sacrifice 
skill and cease exertion in the proper place, than to expend both indiscriminately. We 
shall find, in the course of our investigation, that beauty and difficulty go together; 
and that they are only mean and paltry difficulties which it is wrong or contemptible to 
wrestle with. Be it remembered, then. Power is never wasted. Whatever power has been 
employed, produces excellence in proportion to its own dignity and exertion ; and the faculty 
of perceiving this exertion, and appreciating this dignity, is the faculty of perceiving excel- 
lence. John Ruskin. 

o 

EDUCATIO.Y. 
STATUE lies hid in the block of marble, and the art of the statuary only clears away 
the superfluous matter and removes the rubbish. The figure is in the stone ; the sculp- 
tor only finds it. What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to a human 
soul. The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or the great man, 
very often lies hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a proper education might have disin- 
terred, and brought to light, Joseph Addisqn, 



578 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 

THE IJ^TERPRETEBS. iv. 

i^ In human thought have all things habitation ; 

Our davs 
^AYS dawn on us that make amends for Laugh, lower, and lighten past, and find no 
^ °^^"y . station 

.,.. . sometimes, That stays. 

When heaven and earth seem sweeter even But thought and faith are mightier things 
tlianfny than time 

Man's rhymes. Can wrong. 

Light had not all been quenched in France, or Made splendid once with speech, or made 

sublime 



quelled 

In Greece, 
Had Homer sung not, or had Hugo held 

His peace. 
Had Sappho's self not left her word thus long 

For token. 
The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of song 

Had spoken. 



And yet these days of subtler air and finer 

Delight, 
When lovelier looks the darkness, and diviner 

The light. 
The gift they give of all these golden hours. 

Whose urn 
Pours forth reverberate rays or shadowing 
showers 

In turn. 
Clouds, beams, and winds that make the live 
day's track 

Seem living — 
What were they did no spirit give them back 

Thanksgiving ? 

in. 

Dead air, dead fire, dead shapes and shadows, 
telling 

Time nought ; 
Man gives them sense and soul by song, and 
dwelling 

In thought. 
In human thought their being endures, their 
power 

Abides : 
Else were their life a thing that each light 
hour 

Derides. 
The years live, work, sigh, smile, and die, 
with all 

They cherish : 
The soul endures, though dreams tJiat fed it 
faU 

And perish, 



By song. 
Remembrance, though the tide of change that 
rolls 

Wax hoary. 
Gives earth and heaven, for song's sake and 
the soul's 

Their glory. 
Charles Algernox Swinburne. 




Charles Algernon Swinburne. 



THIS LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT 

Tj ET'S oftener talk of noble deeds. 
Mi And rarer of the bad ones. 
And sing about our happy days, 

And not about the sad ones. 
We were not made to fret and sigh, 

And when grief sleeps to wake it, 
Bright happiness is standing by — 

This life is what we make it. 

Let's find the sunny side of men, 

Or be believers in it ; 
A light ther§ 19 in every soul 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



579 



That takes the pains to win it. 
Oh ! there's a slumbering good in all, 

And we perchance may wake it ; 
Our hands contain the magic wand; 

This life is what we make it. 

Then here's to those whose loving hearts 
Shed light and joy about them! 



Thanks be to them for countless gems 
We ne'er had known without them. 

Oh! this should be a happy world 
To all who may partake it ; 

The fault's our own if it is not — 
This life is what we make it. 

Anoxymous. 



EDUCAT10J\\ 

F we work upon marble, it will perish; if we work upon brass, time will efface it; if we 
rear temples, they will crumble into dust ; but if we work upon immortal minds, if we 
imbue them with principles, with the just fear of God, and love of our fellow-men, we 
engrave on those tablets something which will brighten to all eternity. 

Daniel Webster. 
o 

SOMETIME. 

OMETIME" — It is the sweet, sweet song, warbled to and fro, among the topmost 
boughs of the heart, and filling the whole air with such joy and gladness as the 
songs of birds do when the summer morning comes out of darkness, and day is born 
on the mountains. We have all our possessions in the future which we call " some- 
Beautiful flowers are there, only our hands seldom grasp the one or our ears hear the 
But, oh, reader, be of good cheer, for all the good there is in a golden " sometime ;" 
when the hill and valleys of time are passed ; when the wear and fever, the disappointment and 
the sorrows of life are over, then there is a place and the rest appointed of God. Oh, homestead, 
over whose roof fall no shadows or even clouds; and over whose threshold the voice of sor- 
row is never heard; built upon the eternal hills, and standing with thy spires and pinnacles 
of celestial beauty among the palm trees of the city on high, those who love God shall rest 
under thy shadows, where there Is no more sorrrow nor pain, nor the sound of weeping — 
"sometime." George Dexxison Prentice. 





u 



time." 
other. 



UNREALITY. 

(From "The Tempest," Act IV., Scene 1.) 

^^^HE cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous 

iF palaces. 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself. 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded. 
Leave not a rack behind : We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

William Shakspere. 



A FOOL. 

(From "As You Like It," Act II., Scene 5.) 

JTAQUES. a fool, a fool!— I met a fool i' the 

Q/ forest. 

A motley fool 5 a miseraWe world !-^ 



As I do live by food, I met a fool ; — 

Who laid him down and basked him in the 

sun. 
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms, 
In good set terms — and yet a motley fool. 
Good-morrow, fool, quoth I: No, sir, quoth he, 
Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me for- 
tune : 
And then he drew a dial from his poke ; 
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 
Says, very wisely. It is ten o''clock : 
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world 

wags : 
^Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine; 
And after an hour more Hwill be eleven ; 
And so, from hour to hour, lue ripe, and ripe. 
And then, from hour to hour, ive rot, and rot. 
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear 
The mptlej^ fool thus moral on the time, 



580 



POEMS OF REFLECTION^. 



My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 
That fools should be so deep-contemplative , 
And I did laugh sans intermission, 
An hour by his dial. — O noble fool ! 
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear. 

William Shakspere. 



SCAKBAL. 

WHISPER broke the air— 
A soft, light tone and low, 
Yet barbed with shame and woe ; 
Now might it perish only there, 
Nor further go. 

Ah I me, a quick and eager ear 
Caught up the little meaning sound. 

Another voice had breathed it clear ; 
And so it wandered round 

From ear to lip, from lip to ear, 

Until it reached a gentle heart, 
And that it broke! 

AXOXYMOUS. 



DOX'T TAKE IT TO HEART 

fHERE'S many a trouble 
Would break like a bubble. 
And into the waters of Lethe depart. 
Did we not rehearse it. 
And tenderly nurse it, 
And give it a permanent place in the heart. 

There's many a sorroAv 

Would vanish to-morrow 
Were we not unwilling to furnish the wings; 

So sadly intruding 

And quietly brooding. 
It hatches out all sorts of horrible things. 

How welcome the seeming 

Of looks that are beaming, 
Whether one's wealthy or whether one's poor ; 

Eyes bright as a berry, 

Cheeks red as a cherry. 
The groan and the curse and the heartache 
can cure. 

Resolved to be merry 
All worry to ferry 
Across the famed waters that bid us forget, 
And no longer fearful. 
But happy and cheerful, 
We feel life has much that's worth living for 
yet. 

Anonymous, 



POLOmUS TO LAERTES. 

(From '' Hamlet," Act 1., Scene 3.) 

/J^IVE thy thoughts no tongue, 

VS^, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. 

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 

The friends thou hast, and their adoption 
tried. 

Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; 

But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 

Of each new^-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Be- 
ware 

Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in. 

Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee. 

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice ; 

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy 
judgment. 

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy. 

But not express'd in fancy ; rich, not gaudy, 

For the apparel oft proclaims the man ; 

And they in France, of the best rank and sta- 
tion. 

Are most select and generous, chief in that. 

Neither a borrower, nor a lender be ; 

For toan oft loses both itself and friend; 

And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 

This above all, — To thine own self be true; 

And it must follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man. 

Farewell ; my blessing season this in thee ! 
WiLLiA]M Shakspere. 



SUGGESTIOJf. 

J^HE lad and lass were forced to part. 
■p) They kissed and went along; 
The sight went into the poet's heart, 
And it came out a song. 

The sun, down-sloping in the west. 

Made gold the evening air; 
-The sight went into the painter's breast, 

And grew to a picture fair. 

The mother murmured to her child, 

And hushed it yet again ; 
The sound, as the musician smiled, 

Grew music in his brain. 

The damsel turned, her hair to bind, 

A flower was in her zone ; 
There grew from out the sculptor's mind, 

A damsel carved in stone. 

The song was said, the tune was played, 
The girl in marble stood, 



rOEMS OF REFLECTION. 



5S1 



The sunset in the picture stayed, 
And all was sweet and good. 

And God, who made these things to be, 

The damsel and the sun, 
Color and sound, and you and me. 

Was pleased to see it done ; 

And all the angels would be glad 

If, in the world He built, 
Although there must be some things sad. 

No drop of joy were spilt. 

But all the beauty in the earth. 
And skies and hearts of men, 

Were gently gathered at its birth. 
And loved, and born again. 

Matthew Browne. 















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Joyous Youth. 

CHEERFULJS'-ESS. 

§E merry, man, and tak not sair in mind 
The wavering of this wretched world of 
sorrow ; 
To God be humble, to thy friend be kind. 
And with thy neighbors gladly lend and bor- 
row ; 
His chance to-night it may be thine to-mor- 
row ; 
36 



Be blythe in hearte for my aventure. 

For oft with wise men it has been said aforow 

Without Gladness availes no Treasure. 

Make thee gude cheer of it that God thee 

sends. 
For warld's wrak but welfare nought avails ; 
Nae gude is thine save only that thou spends, 
Remanant all thou bruikes but with bails ; 
Seek to solace when sadness thee assails; 
l7i dolour lang thy life may not endure^ 
Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sails ; 
Without Gladness availes no Treasure. 

Follow on pity, flee trouble and debate. 
With famous folkis hald thy company; 
Be charitable and hum'le in thine estate. 
For warldly honour lastes but a cry. 
For trouble in earth tak no melancholy; 
Be rich in patience, if thou in gudes be poor, 
Who lives merrily he lives mightily ; 
Without Gladness availes no Treasure. 

William Duxbar. 



TEST OF FBIEJ^DSHIP. 

§OME years ago, when I was young. 
And filled with hopes and pride and folly. 
Dire sorrow came, and o'er me flung 

Its gloomy pall of melancholy, 
I had a friend of just my years ; 

I loved him with a deep devotion ; 
His griefs and joys, his hopes and fears. 
Produced in me a like emotion. 

I toiled for years to win a name. 

Through sleepless nights and days of 
trouble 
To learn this truth at last, that fame 

Is but an empty air-blown bubble. 
My friend sought wealth and often wrote 

That he was rich and loved me dearly ! 
And always closed his friendly note 

With " Yours most truly and sincerely." 

And once he wrote, "My dear old chum, 

If you are short — now don't be silly — 
Just drop a line and name the sum 

To me, your friend and crony, Willie." 
But still I had a foolish pride 

To keep from him my little pinches ; 
We like, if possible, to hide 

Our wants from one that never flinches. 

And thus I labored late and long. 
Until my hopes and nerves were shattered. 



582 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 

Until my health, which, never strong, Till all my clothes were growing seedy ; 

Gave out, and then my friends soon scatter- It came at last; I read in jail, 

ed ; " I've nearer friends just twice as needy/' 
For they had learned that I was poor ; 

Now penury is not disgraceful ; Thus ended one of boyhood's dreams, 

But to the rich it shuts the door, ^s many a dream before has ended ; 

And makes its victim seem distasteful. Friendship is rarely what it seems— 

With money, often closely blended. 

And now, I thought, since health has flown, I left my books, and earned my bread 

My ancient, wealthy friend will aid me ; By earnest, patient, healthful labor, 

A small amount, a trifling loan And slept serenely in my bed. 

From one so true will not degrade me. Nor owe a dime to friend or neighbor. 
For still he wrote, that better far 

He loved me than a blood relation ; '^^^ moral here is easy shown, 

He talked about his '' lucky star," If tt^ey who read will only heed it : 

His wife and means, his wealth and station. '^^ test a friend just ask a loan 

Of money when you really need it. 

Then with a faltering pen, one day, Another lesson may be learned, 

(I had not nerve to do it boldly), Unaided by the light of science ; 

I wrote, " I have my rent to pay," That gold and fame are only earned 

Nor dreamed that he would take it coldly. By patient toil and self-reliance. 

I waited long — I watched the mail, John Godfrey Saxe. 



TEjYTERDEJY steeple AJfD GOODWIJV SAJfDS. 

(From a Sermon.) 

'ERE now I remember an argument of Master More's which he bringeth in a book that 
he made against Bilney, and here, by the way, I will tell you a merry toy. Master 
More was once sent in commission into Kent, to help to try out, if it might be, what 
was the cause of Goodwin sands and the shelf that stopped up Sandwich haven. Thith- 
er Cometh Master More, and calleth the country before him, such as were thought to be men 
of experience, and men that could of likelihood best certify him of that matter concerning the 
stopping of Sandwich haven. Among others came in before him an old man with a white 
head, and one that was thought to be little less than a hundred years old. When Master More 
saw this aged man, he thought it expedient to hear him say his mind in this matter ; for, being 
so old a man, it was likely that he knew most of any man in that presence and company. So 
Master More called this old aged man unto him, and said : "Father, tell me, if you can, what 
is the cause of this great rising of the sands and shelves here about this haven, the which 
stop it up, so that no ships can arri ve here ? Ye are the eldest man that I can espy in all this com- 
pany, so that if any man can tell any cause of it, ye of likelihood can say most of it, or at leastwise, 
more than any man here assembled," " Yea, forsooth, good master," quoth this old man, "for 
I am well-nigh a hundred years old, and no man here in this company anything near unto my 
age." "Well, then," quoth Master More, "how say you in this matter? What think ye to be 
the cause of these shelves and flats that stop up Sandwich haven? " " Forsooth, sir," quoth he, 
"I am an old man ; I think that Tenderden steeple is the cause of Goodwin sands : for I am an 
old man, sir," quoth he, " and I may remember the building of Tenderden Steeple, and I may 
remember when there was no steeple at all there. And before that Tenderden steeple was 
in building, there was no manner of speaking of any flats or sands that stopped the haven, 
and therefore I think that Tenderden steeple is the cause of the destroying and decay of 
Sandwich haven." And so to my purpose, preaching of God's word is the cause of rebellion, 
as Tenderden steeple was the cause that Sandwich haven is decayed. 

(Bishop) Hugh Latimer. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



583 



AFTER THE MIBKIGHT COMETH 
MORJr. 

fHE years come and the years go; 
And the leaves of life keep falling, 
Carrie! falling; 
And across the sunless river's flow 
With accents soft and whispers low, 
The friends long lost are calling, 
Carrie! calling; 
While autumn his red glory wears, 
And clouds oppress the sky like cares — 
But the old griefs die, and new joys are born, 
And after the midnight cometh morn. 

The years wake, and the years sleep, 
And the past is full of sorrow, 
Carrie! sorrow, 
The thoughtless laughs and the thoughtful 

weeps, 
And each the fruit of his follies reaps, 
For to-day is the fate of to-morrow, 
Carrie! to-morrow; 
But new loves tempt us to forget 
The old, and old friends love us yet — 
So the old griefs die, and new joys are born. 
And after the midnight cometh morn. 



The years laugh, the years sigh, 
But the flowers for you are blowing, 
Carrie! blowing; 
As girlhood's days go dancing by. 
And womanhood's blithe May is nigh. 
With hopes and fancies glowing, 
Carrie! glowing; 
While love his nets for you prepares. 
And lurks to catch you unawares — 
And the old griefs die and new joys are 
born. 
And after the midnight cometh morn. 

The years live and the years die. 
And all they touch they sadden, 
Carrie ! sadden ; 
But still the heart can time defy, 
Hope still with purple flush our sky, 
And sober friendship gladden, 
Carrie! gladden; 
And well as we have loved before. 
In autumn we can love once more — 
For the old griefs die, and new joys are 

born. 
And after midnight cometh morn. 

Albert Pike. 



OJf GOOD BREEDING. 

Q FRIEND of yours and mine has very justly deflned good breeding to be, " the result of 
much good sense, some good nature, and a little self-denial for the sake of others, and 
with a view to obtain the same indulgence from them." Taking this for granted — 
as I think it cannot be disputed — it is astonishing to me that anybody, who has good 
sense and good nature, can essentially fail in good breeding. As to the modes of it, indeed, 
they vary according to persons, places and circumstances, and are only to be acquired by ob- 
servation and experience ; but the substance of it is everywhere and eternally the same. 
Good manners are to particular societies, what good morals are to society in general — their ce- 
ment and their security. And as laws are enacted to enforce good morals, or at least to pre- 
vent the ill eff"ects of bad ones, so there are certain rules of civility, universally implied and 
received, to enforce good manners and punish bad ones. And indeed there seems to me 
to be less difference, both between the crimes and punishments, than at first one would im- 
agine. The immoral man, who invades another's property, is justly hanged for it; and the 
ill-bred man, who by his ill manners invades and disturbs the quiet and comforts of private 
life, is by common consent as justly banished society. Mutual complaisances, attentions, and 
sacrifices of little conveniences, are as natural an implied compact between civilized people as 
protection and obedience are between kings and subjects ; whoever, in either case, violates 
that compact, justly forfeits all advantages arising from it. For my own part, I really think 
that, next to the consciousness of doing a good action, that of doing a civil one is the most 
pleasing ; and the epithet, which I should covet the most, next to that of Aristides, would be 
that of well-bred. 

Lord Chestertieli), 





y^^l^^ ^:^^...y^ 



rOEMS OF REFLECTION^. 585 

BEEAVIOB. 

(From "The Conduct of Life.") 

'HERE is always a best way of doing everything, if it be to boil an eg^. Manners are 
the happy ways of doing things; each once a stroke of genius or of love, now repeat- 
ed and hardened into usage. They form at last a rich varnish, with which the rou- 
tine of life is washed, and its details adorned. If they are superficial, so are the dew- 
drops which give such a depth to the morning meadows. Manners are very communicable ; 
men catch them from each other. Consuelo, in the romance, boasts of the lessons she has 
given the nobles in manners, on the stage ; and, in real life. Talma taught Napoleon the arts 
of behavior. Genius invents the manners, which the baron and baroness copy very fast, 
and, by the advantage of a palace, better the instruction. They stereotype the lesson they 
have learned into a mode. 

The power of manners is incessant, an element as unconcealable as fire. The nobility can- 
not in any country be disguised, and no more in a republic or a democracy than in a kingdom. No 
man can resist their influence. There are certain manners which are learned in good society, of that 
force, that if a person have them, he or she must be considered, and is welcome everywhere, 
though without beauty, or wealth, or genius. Give a boy address and accomplishments, and you 
give him the mastery of palaces and fortunes wherever he goes. He has not the trouble of earn- 
ing or owning them ; they solicit him to enter and possess. We send girls of a timid, retreat- 
ing disposition to boarding-school, to riding-school, to the ball-room, or wheresoever they 
can come into acquaintance and nearness of leading persons of their own sex; where they 
might learn address and see it near at hand. The power of a woman of fashion to lead, and 
also to daunt and repel, derives from their belief that she knows resources and behaviors not 
known to them ; but when these have mastered her secret, they learn to confront her, and re- 
cover their self-possession. * * * * ** ^ * 

We talk much of our utilities, but 'tis our manners that associate us. In hours of business 
we go to him who knows, or has, or does this or that which we want, and we do not let our 
taste or feeling stand in the way. But this activity over, we return to the indolent state, and 
wish for those we can be at ease with ; those who will go where we go, whose manners do not 
offend us, whose social tone chimes with ours. When we reflect on their persuasive and 
cheering force; how they recommend, prepare, and draw people together; how, in all clubs, 
manners make the members ; how manners make the fortune of the ambitious youth ; that, 
for the most part, his manners marry him, and, for the most part, he marries manners; when 
we think what keys they are, and to what secrets ; what high lessons and inspiring tokens of 
character they convey; and what divination is required in us, for the reading of this fine 
telegraph, we see what range the subject has, and what relations to convenience, power, and 
beauty. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

— — 

ODE. 

(INTIMATIOXS OF IMMORTALITY FROM REJCOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.) 

I^HE Child is Father of the Man ; To me did seem 

And I could wish my days to be Appareled in celestial light. 

Bound each to each in natural piety. The glory and the freshness of a dream. 

It is not now as it hath been of yore ; 

•'■• Turn whereso'er I may 

There was a time when meadow, grove and By night or day, 

stream, The things which I have seen I now can 

The earth and every common sight, no more. 



586 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
Waters on a starrv ni^ht 

r, 



Are beautiful and fair, 

The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 

But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from 
the earth. 




« The earth and every common sight, 
To me did seem appareled in celestial light." 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



837 



m. 

Now while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of 

grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought 
relief, 
And I again am strong ; 

The cataracts blow their trumpets from 
steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
1 hear the echoes through the mountaius 
throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of 
sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 

Give themselves up to jollity, 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; 
Thou child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou 

happy shepherd-boy. 
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your ju- 
bilee ; 
My heart is at your festival. 
My head hath its coronal. 
The fullness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 
Oh evil day , if I were sullen 
While earth herself is adorning, 
This sweet May morning, 
And the children are culling 
On every side. 

In a thousand vaUeys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines 
» warm. 

And the babe leaps up on its mother's arm; 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
But there's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone; 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat. 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

IV. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 

The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar ; 



Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
From God, who is our home. 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is nature's priest. 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
Aud fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural 

kind, 
And, even with something of a mother's 
mind. 
And no unworthy aim. 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate, 
Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he 
came. 

VII. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he 
lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses! 

With light upon him from his father's 
eyes! 
See at his feet some little plan or chart, 

Some fragment from his dream of human 
life; 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral, 
And this now hath his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song ; 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
But it will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside, 
And with new joy and pride. 
The little actor cons another part ; 

Filling from time to time his " humorous 

stage " 
With aU the persons, down to palsied Age, 



588 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 




And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended." 



That Life brings with her in her equipage; 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 



- VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
Thy soul's immensity, 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 



That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, 
Mighty prophet I Seer blest ! 
On whom these truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to 
find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 

Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by, 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro- 
voke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 

Full soon thy soul shall have her earth- 
ly freight, 

And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 



IX. 

O joy! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth 

breed 
Perpetual benediction ; not indeed 

For that which is most worthy to be blest. 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in 
his breast ; 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise. 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings. 
Blank misgivings of a creature 

Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal na- 
ture 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ; 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections. 
Which, be they what they may. 
Are yet the fountain light of all our 
day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing, 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to 
make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence ; truths that w^ake 
To perish never ; 

Which neither listlessness, nor mad 
endeavor, 
Nor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather. 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal 



Which brought us hither. 
Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- 
more. 



Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let' the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound I 
We in thought will join your throng. 
Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance that was once so 

bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight. 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flow- 
er, 
W^e will grieve not ; rather find 
Strength in what remains behind; 
In the primal sympathy. 
Which having been must ever be ; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering ; 
In the faith that looks through death 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI. 

And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and 

groves, 
Forbode not any severing of our loves! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
I only have relinquished one delight, 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I love the brooks which down their chan- 
nels fret. 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as 

they; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from the eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortal- 
ity; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are 

won. 

Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears. 

To me the meanest flower that blows can give 

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 

tears. 

William Wordsworth. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



IKTVITIOKS. 

(From "Aurora Leigh.") 

fHE cygnet finds the water: but the man 
Is born in ignorance of his element, 
And feels out blind at first, disorganized 
By sin i' the blood, his first spirit-insight dull- 
ed 
And crossed by his sensations. Presently 
He feels it quicken in the dark sometimes; 
When mark, be reverent, be obedient. 
For such dumb motions of imperfect life 
Are oracles of vital Deity 
Attesting the hereafter. Let who says 
•' The soul's a clean white paper," rather say, 
A palimpsest, a prophet's holograph 
Defiled, erased, and covered by a monk's, 
The apocalypse, by a Longus ! Poring on 
Which obscene text, we may discern perhaps 
Some fair, fine trace of what was written 

once. 
Some upstroke of an Alpha and Omega 
Expressing the old Scripture. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



CHORUS. 

(From " Atalanta in Calydon.") 

BEFORE the beginning of years 
There came to the making of man 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 

Grief, with a glass that ran; 
Pleasure with pain for leaven ; 

Summer, with flowers that fell; 
Remembrance, fallen from heaven, 

And Madness, risen from hell; 
Strength without hands to smite ; 

Love, that endures for a breath ; 
Night, the shadow of light. 

And liife, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears, 
And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of years; 
And froth and drift of the sea ; 

And dust of the labouring earth; 
And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter. 

And fashioned with loathing and love. 
With life before and after. 

And death beneath and above. 
For a day and a night and a morrow. 

That his strength might endure for a span 



With travail and heavy sorrow, * 
The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the south 

They gathered as unto strife ; 
They breathed upon his mouth, 

They filled his body with life ; 
Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein 
A time for labor and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin ; 
They gave him a light in his ways. 

And love, and a space for delight, 
And beauty and length of days. 

And night, and sleep in the night. 
His speech is a burning fire ; 

With his lips he travaileth ; 
In his heart is a blind desire. 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death : 
He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 

Charles Algernon Swinburne. 



THE POETRY OF LIFE. 

(Translation of Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton.) 

* * W^fHO would himself with shadows enter- 

W tain. 
Or gild his life with lights that shine in vain, 
Or nurse false hopes that do but cheat the 

true V 
Though with my dream my heaven should be 

resign'd ; 
Though the free-pinion'd soul that once could 

dwell 
In that large empire of the Possible, 
This work-day life with iron chains may bind. 
Yet thus the mastery o'er ourselves we find. 
And solemn duty to our acts decreed. 
Meets us thus tutored in the hour of need. 
With a more sober and submissive mind ! 
How front Necessity — yet bid thy youth 
Shun the mild rule of life's calm sovereign. 

Truth." 

So speak'st thou, friend, how stronger far 

than I; 
As from Experience — that sure port serene — 
Thou look'st ; and straight a coldness wraps 

the sky, 
The summer glory withers from the scene. 
Scared by the solemn spell ; behold them fly, 
The godlike images that seemed so fairl 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



691 




^^^y^t-^ 



Silent the playful Muse — the rosy Hours 
Halt in their dance ; and the May-breathing 

flowers 
Fall from the sister-Graces' waving hair. 
Sweet-mouthed Apollo breaks his golden lyre, 
Hermes, the wand with many a marvel rife ; 
The veil, rose-woven, by the young Desire 
With dreams, drops from the hueless cheeks of 

Life. 
The world seems what it is — a Grave! and 

Love 



Casts down the bandage wound his eyes 

above. 
And sees ! He sees but images of clay 
Where he dream'd gods ; and sighs, and glides 

away. 
The youngness of the Beautiful grows old. 
And on thy lips the bride's sweet kiss seems 

cold; 
And in the crowd of joys — upon thy throne 
Thou sitt'st in state, and hardenest into stone. 
Frederick von Schiller. 



592 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 



" THE DAYS OF IjYFAjXCY ARE 
ALL A DREAMr 

f]MHE days of infancy are all a dream ; 
i^ How fair, but oh, how short they 
seem ! 
'Tis life's sweet opening spring! 
The days of youth advance; 
The bounding limb, the ardent glance, 

'J'he kindling soul they bring! 
It is life's burning summer time. . ' 
Manhood, matured, with wisdom's fruit, 
Reward of learning's deep pursuit. 
Succeeds, as autumn follows summer's 

prime. 
And that, and that, alas ! goesl)y ; 
And what ensues? The languid eye. 
The failing frame, the soul o'ercast; 
'Tis winter's siclvening, withering blast, 
Life's blessed season, for it is the last. 

Robert Southey. 



MAJV, 

(From "Night Thoughts.") 

MO'VV poor, how rich, how abject, how au- 
gust. 

How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 

How passing wonder He who made him such! 

Who centred in our make such strange ex- 
tremes : 

From different natures marvellously mixed, 

Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! 

Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! 

Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 

A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed ! 

Though sullied and dishonored, still divine! 

Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 

An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust! 

Helpless immortal! insect infinite ! 

A worm ! A god ! I tremble at myself. 

And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, 

Thought wanders up and down, surprised, 
aghast. 

And wondering at her own. How reason 
reels ! 

Oh, what a miracle to man is man! 

Triumphantly distressed! what joy! what 
dread ! 

What can preserve ray life, or what destroy! 

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the 
grave ; 

Legions of angels can't confine me there. 
Edward Young. 



THE COJfVICT SHIP. 

/IjyjOR^ on the water! and, purple and 

\M bright, 

Bursts on the billows the flushing of light ; 

O'er the glad waves, lil^e a child of the sun. 

See, the tall vessel goes gallantly on ; 

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail. 

And her pennon streams onward, like hope in 

the gale ; 
The winds come around her, in murmur and 

song, 
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along; 
See ! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, 
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds. 
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray, 
Over the waters, away, and away! 
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part, 
Passing away, like a dream of the heart! 
Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by. 
Music around her, and sunshine on high. 
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow. 
Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking below ! 

ITight on the waves ! and the moon is on high. 
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky. 
Treading its deaths in the power of her might. 
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to 

light. 
Look to the waters! asleep on their breast. 
Seems not the ship like an island of rest? 
Bright and alone on the shadowy main, 
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate 

plain. 

Who, as she smiles in the silvery light, 
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, 
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, 
A phantom of beauty, could deem, with a 

sigh. 
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin. 
And that souls that are smitten lie bursting 

within ? 
Who, as he watches her silently gliding. 
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing 
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, 
Hearts which are parted and broken forever? 
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, 
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's 

grave? 

'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along. 
Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and song ; 
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world. 
With streamers afloat, and with canvas un- 
furled, 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 



593 




All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, 

Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with 
sighs ; 

Fading and false is the aspect it wears, 

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our 
tears ; 

And the withering thoughts which the world 
cannot know, 

Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below ; 

While the vessel drives on to that desolate 
shore 

Where the dreams of our childhood are van- 
ished and o'er. 

Thomas Kibble Hervey. 



THE KABOB. 

W'HEN silent time, wi' lightly foot, 
Had trod on thirty years, 
1 sought again my native land 

Wi' mony hopes and fears. 
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left 

May still continue mine ? 

Or gin I e'er again shall taste 

The joys I left langsyne ? 

As I drew near my ancient pile 

My heart beat a' the way ; 
Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak 

O' some d(!ar former day ; 
Those days that followed me afar, 

Those happy days o' mine, 
Whilk made me think the present joys 

A' naething to langsyne ! 

The ivied tower now met my eye. 

Where minstrels used to blaw ; 
Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand, 

Nae weel-kenned face I saw ; 
Till Donald tottered to the door. 

Wham I left in his prime. 
And grat to see the lad return 

He bore about langsyne. 

I ran to ilka dear friend's room. 

As if to find them there, 
I knew where ilk ane used to sit. 

And hang o'er mony a chair ; 
Till soft remembrance threw a veil 

Across these e'en o' mine, 
I closed the door and sobbed aloud, 

To think on auld langsyne. 

Some penny chiels, a new-sprung race 
W9.d next their welcome pay, 



Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's. 
And wished my groves away. 

"Cut, cut," they cried, "those aged 
elms ; 
Lay low yon mournfu' pine." 

Na! na! our fathers' names grow there, 
Memorials o' langsyne. 

To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts. 

They took me to the town ; 
But sair on ilka weel-kenned face 

I missed the youthfu' bloom. 
At balls they pointed to a nj-mph 

Wham a' declared divine; 
But sure her mother's blushing cheeks 

Were fairer far langsyne ! 

In vain I sought in music's sound 

To find that magic art. 
Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays 

Has thrilled through a' my heart. 
The song had mony an artfu' turn ; 

My ear confessed 'twas fine ; 
But missed the simple melody 

I listened to langsyne. 

Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, 

Forgie an auld man's spleen, 
Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still 
mourns 

The days he ance has seen. 
When time has passed and seasons fled. 

Your hearts will feel like mine ; 
And aye the sang will maist delight 

That. minds ye o' langsyne! 

Susanna Blamike. 



YOUTH. 

(A newly discovered poem by Robert Burns, hitherto 
unpublished. It was found in one of the poet's exercise 
books, and was given to tlie world by the London Dra- 
matic Review, which has vouched for its genuineness.) 

TOUTH is a vision of a morn 
That flies the coming day; 
It is the blossom on the thorn 
Which wild winds sweep away. 

It is the image of the sky 

In glassy waters seen. 
When not a cloud appears to fly 

Across the blue serene. 

But when the waves begin to roar 

And lift their foaming head, 
The morning stars appear no more 

And all the heaven is fled. 



rOEMS OF REFLECTION. 595 

'Tis fleeting as the passing rays But soon the gathering tempests soar 
Of bright electric Are, And all the sky deform, 

That flash about with sudden blaze The gale becomes the whirlwind's roar, 
And in that blaze expire. The sigh an angry storm. 

It is the morning's gentle gale For care and sorrow's morbid gloom, 

That as it swiftly blows, • And heart's corroding strife, 

Scarce seems to sigh across the vale And weakness pointing to the tomb 

Or bend the blushing rose. Await the noon of life. 

Robert Burns. 



TROUBLES OF CHILDHOOD. 

(From "The Mill on the Floss.") 

>rr^H, my child, you will have real troubles to fret about by-and-by," is the consolation 
4 4 1 ^>J ^ve have almost all of us had administered to us in our childhood, and have repeat- 

^^^ ed to other children since we have grown up. We have all of us sobbed so pite- 
ously, standing with tiny bare legs above onr socks, when we lost sight of our 
mother or nurse in some strange place ; but w^e can no longer recall the poignancy of that 
moment and weep over it, as we do over the remembered sufferings of five or ten years ago. 
Every one of those keen moments has left its trace, and lives in us still, but such traces have 
blent themselves Inrecoverably with the firmer texture of our youth and manhood ; and so 
it comes that we can look on at the troubles of our children with a smiling disbelief in the re- 
ality of their pain. Is there any one who can recover the experience of his childhood, not 
merely with a memory of what he did and what happened to him, of what he liked and dis- 
liked when he was in frock and trousers, but what an intimate penetration, a revived con- 
sciousness of what he felt then, when it was so long from one Midsummer to another? What 
he felt when his school-fellows shut him out of their game because he would pitch the ball wrong 
out of mere willfulness; or on a rainy day in the holidays, when he didn't know how to 
amuse himself, from mischief into defiance, and from defiance into sulkiness ; or when his 
mother absolutely refused to let him have a tailed coat that "half," although every other 
boy of his age had gone into tails already ? Surely, if we could recall that early bitterness, 
and the dim guesses, the strangely perspectiveless conception of life that gave the bitterness 
its intensity, we should not pooh-pooh the griefs of our children. Marian Evans Cross. 

("George Eliot,") 

THE PLEASURES OF POVERTY, 

(From "The Essays of Elia.") 

WISH the good old days would come again,^' she said, " when we were not quite so 
4 4 .^. rich. I do not mean that I want to be poor; but there was a middle state," so she 
was pleased to ramble on, "in which I am sure we were a great deal happier. A purchase 
is but a purchase, now that we have money enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be 
a triumph. When we coveted a cheap luxury (and oh! how much ado I had to get you to con- 
sent in those times !) we were used to have a debate two or three days before, and to weigh 
the for and against, and think what we might spare it out of, and what saving we could hit 
upon, that should be an equivalent. A thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money 
that we paid for it. 

" Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon you, till all your friends 
cried shame upon you, it grew so thread-bare ; and all because of that folio Beaumont and 
Fletcher, which you dragged home late at night from Barker's in Covent Garden ? Do you 



596 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 

remember how we eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and 
had not come to a determination until it was near ten o'clock of the Saturday night, when 
you set oflf for Islington, fearing you should be too late; and when the old book-seller with 
some grumbling opened his shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bedwards) 
lugged out the relic from his dusty treasures ; and when you lugged it home, wishing it were 
twice as cumbersome; and when you presented it to me ; and when we were exploring the 
perfectness of it, collating it, you called it ; and while I was repairing some of the loose 
leaves with paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left until day-break; was 
there no pleasure in being a poor man ? Or can those neat black clothes which you wear now, 
and which you are so careful to keep brushed, since we have become rich and finical, give 
you half the honest vanity with which you flaunted it about in that over-worn suit, your old 
corbeau, for foui* or five weeks longer than you should have done, to pacify your conscience for 
the mighty sum of fifteen — or sixteen shillings, was it? — a great affair we thought it then — 
which you had lavished upon the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book that pleases 
you, but I do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old purchases now. 

" When you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number of shillings up- 
on that print after Leonardo, which w^e christened the 'Lady Blanche ;' when you looked at 
the purchase, and thought of the money, and looked again at the picture, was there no pleas- 
ure in being a poor man ? Now, you have nothing to do but walk into Colnaghi's, and buy a 
wilderness of Leonardos. Yet do you? 

"Then, do you remember our pleasant walks to Enfield^ and Potter's bar, and Waltham, when 
we had a holiday? Holidays, and all other fun, are gone, now we are rich. And the little 
hand-basket in w^hich I used to deposit our day's fare of savory cold lamb and salad ; and how 
you would pry about at noon-tide for some decent house, where we might go in and produce 
our store, only paying for the ale which you must call for ; and speculate upon the looks of 
the landlady, and whether she was likely to allow us a table-cloth; and wish for such another 
honest hostess as Izaak Walton has described many a one on the pleasant banks of the Lea, 
when he went a fishing; and sometimes they would prove obliging enough, and sometimes 
they would look grudgingly upon us ; but we had cheerful looks still for one another, and 
would eat our plain food savorily, scarcely grudging Piscator his Trout Hall? 

"There was pleasure in eating strawberries, before they became quite common; in the first 
dish of peas while they were yet dear ; to have them for a nice supper, a treat. What treat 
can we have now? If we were to treat ourselves now, that is, to have dainties a little 
above our means, it would be selfish and wicked. It is the very little more that we allow our- 
selves, beyond what the actual poor can get at, that makes what I call a treat; when two peo- 
ple living together, as we have done, now and then indulge themselves in a cheap luxury, 
which both like ; while each apologizes, and is willing to take both halves of the blame to his 
single share. I see no harm in people making much of themselves, in that sense of the word. 
It may give them a hint how to make much of others. But now, what I mean by the word, 
we never do make nuich of ourselves. None but the poor can do it. I do not mean the veriest 

poor of all, but persons as we were, just above poverty." 

Charles Lajmb. 



MISUSED ART. 

'HE names of great painters are like passing bells; in the name of Velasquez you hear 
sounded the fiiU of Spain ; in the name of Titian, that of Venice; in the name of Leo- 
nardo, that of Milan; in the name of Raphael, that of Rome. And there is profound 
justice in this, for in proportion to the nobleuess of the power is the guilt of its use 



PO EMS OF REFLECTIO:^. 



597 



for purposes vain or vile ; and hitherto, the greater the art, the more surely has it been used, 
and used solely, for the decoration of pride or the provoking of sensuality. John Euskin. 

o 



womajY's voice. 

"Her voice was ever low, 
Gentle and soft — an excellent thing in -woman." 

King Lear. 

^OT in the swaying of the summer trees, 
When evening breezes sing their vesper 
hymn, 

Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies. 
Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim 
Is earth's best music ; these may move 

awhile 
High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking 
cares beguile. 

But even as the sw^allow's silken wings. 

Skimming the water of the sleeping lake. 
Stir the still silver with a hundred rings, 
So doth one sound the sleeping spirit 
wake 
To brave the danger, and to bear the harm : 
A low^ and gentle voice, dear woman's chief- 
est charm. 

An excellent thing it is, and ever lent 
To truth aud love and meekness ; they w^ho 
own 
This gift, by the all-gracious Giver sent. 

Ever by quiet step and smile are known ; 
By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that have 

sorrowed, 
By patience never tired, from their own trials 
borrowed. 

An excellent thing it is, when first in glad- 
ness, 
A mother looks into her infant's eyes. 
Smiles to its smiles, and saddens to its sad- 
ness 
Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries ; 
Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joys. 
All these come ever blent with one low, gentle 
voice. 

An excellent thing it is when life is leaving. 
Leaving with gloom and gladness, joys and 
cares ; 

The strong heart failing, and the high soul 
grieving, 
With strangest thoughts, and with unwont- 
ed fears; 

Then, then a woman's low, soft sympathy 

Comes like an angel's voice, to teach us how 
to die. 
37 



But a most excellent thing it is in youth, 
When the fond lover hears the loved one's 
tone. 
That fears, but longs, to syllable the truth, 
How their two hearts are one, and she his 
own ; 
It makes sweet human music : oh, the spells 
That haunt the trembling tale a bright-eyed 
maiden tells ! Edwin Arnold. 



THE WORLD A STAGE. 

(From "As Tou Like It," Act II., Scene 5.) 

jTAQUES. All the world's a stage, 
Q) And all the men and women merely play- 
ers : 
They have their exits, and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts. 
His acts being seven ages. At first, the in- 
fant. 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms ; 
And then, the whining school-boy, with his 

satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
LTn willingly to school : and then, the lover. 
Sighing like furnace, with a w^oful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eye-brow : Then, a sold- 
ier. 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the 

pard. 
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quar- 
rel, 
"~Se eking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mouth; And then, the 

justice ; 
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd, 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances. 
And so he plays his part : The sixth age 

shifts 
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly 

voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all. 
That ends this strange eventful history. 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every- 
thing. William Shakspere. 




j1^v-e>i.»^ v^^Lr4\.U-/. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



599 



WORK. 

(From "Past aud Present.") 

'HERE is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in Work. Were he never so be- 
nighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man that actually and 
earnestly works. Work, never so mammonish, mean, is in communication with Nature ; 
the real desire to get work done will itself lead one more and more to truth, to Na- 
ture's appointments and regulations which are truth. 

The latest Gospel in this world is, " to know thy work and do it!" " Know thyself ;'' long 
enough has that poor " self" of thine tormented thee ; thou wilt never get to " know " it, I 
believe. Think it not thy business, this of knowing thyself ; thou art an unknowable individual; 
know what thou canst work at ; and work at it like a Hercules! That will be the better plan. 

Religion, I said ; for, properly speaking, all true work is Religion ; and whatsoever Religion 
is not Work may go and dwell among the Brahmins, Antinomians, Spinning Dervishes, or 
where it will ; with me it shall have no harbor. Admirable was that of the old monks : La- 
borare est orare: " Work is Worship." 

Older than all preached Gospels was this unpreached, inarticulate, but ineradicable, forever 
enduring gospel : Work, and therein have well-being! Man, Son of Earth and Heaven, lies 
there not, in the innermost heart of thee, a Spirit of active Method, a Force for Work ; and 
burns like a painfully smouldering fire, giving thee no rest until thou unfold it, till thou write 
it down in beneficent Facts around thee ? What is immethodic, waste, thou shalt make meth- 
odic, regulated, arable ; obedient and productive to thee. Wheresoever thou findest Disorder, 
there is thy eternal enemy ; attack him swiftly, subdue him; make Order of him, the sub- 
ject, not of Chaos, but of Intelligence, Divinity, and thee ! The thistle that grows in thy 
path, dig it out, that a blade of useful grass, a drop of nourishing milk, may grow there in- 
stead. The waste cotton-shrub, gather its waste white down, spin it, weave it ; that, in 
place of idle litter, there may be folded webs, and the naked skin of man be covered. 

Thomas Caelyle. 



LIFE. 

are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 
We love ; we droop ; we die ; 
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? 

Why do we live, or die ? 
Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I! 
Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye ? 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die ? 

We toil through pain and wrong ; 

We fight, and fly; 
We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long. 

Stone-dead we lie. 
O Life ! is all thy song, 
" Endure and die ?" 

Bryan W. Procter. 

(Barry Cornwall.) 



THERE IS KO REST. 

j^HERE is no rest! the mills of change 
^ Grind on — the gods are at the wheels ! 
The same fierce impulse, swift and strange 
We feel, that every planet feels. 

There is no rest ! not even sleep 

Is shorn of its mobility — 
The red bloods through the body sweep 

Forever, like a tided sea. 



There is no rest! the granite grinds 
To dust, within its marble glooms ; 

Decay's pale worm incessant winds 

Its way thro' fame's emblazoned tombs. 

There is no rest! e'en Love hath wings 

That wearilessly fan the air, 
In his leal-hearted wanderings. 

So fetterless, so free from care. 



600 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



There is no rest ! the feet of Pain 
Are shod with motion — Pleasure's eyes 

Pale faster than the sun-kissed rain, 
Swung arching in the mid May skies. 

There is no rest! Religion shakes 
Her stainless robes, and skyward lifts 



Her tremulous m hite palms, and takes 
Faith's priceless and eternal gifts. 

There is no rest ! the long gray caves 
Of death are rife with force and heat, 

Nor Fancy pauses till she paves 

The floors of Heaven with flying feet. 
J. N. Matthews. 



PROSPERITY AJ^D ADVERSITY. 
HE virtue of prosperity is temperance ; the virtue of adversity is fortitude. Prosperity 

is the blessing of the Old Testament; adversity is the blessing of the New, which car- 
rieth the greater benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's favor. Yet even in 
the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as many hearse-like 
airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath labored more in describing the afflic- 
tions of Job than the felicities of Solomon. Prosperity is not without many fears and dis- 
tastes ; and adversity is not without comforts and hopes. We see in needleworks and em- 
broideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to 
have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground: judge, therefore, of the 
pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly, virtue is like precious odors, 
most fragrant where they are incensed, or crushed ; for prosperity doth best discover vice, 
but adversity doth best ,discover virtue. 

Sir Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam. 




Sir Francis Bacon. 



BETTER THIJVGSf 

EETTER to smell the violet cool than sip 
the glowing wine ; 

Better to hark a hidden brook than watch a 
diamond shine. 

Better the love of a gentle heart than beauty's 
favors proud ; 

Better the rose's living seed than roses in a 
crowd. 

Better to love in loneliness than to bask in 
love all day ; 

Better the fountain in the heart than the foun- 
tain by the way. 

Better be fed by mother's hand than eat alone 
at will; 

Better to trust in good than say, " My goods 
my storehouse fill." 

Better to be a little wise than in knowledge 
to abound ; 

Better to teach a child than toil to fill perfec- 
tion's round. 

Better to sit at a master's feet than thrill a 
listening state; 

Better to suspect that thou art proud than be 
sure that thou art great. 

Better to walk in the real unseen than watch 
the hour's event ; 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 601 

Better tlie " Well done !" at the last than the Better a death when work is done than earth's 
air with shouting rent. most favored birth ; 

Better to have a quiet grief than a hurrying Better a child in God's great house than the 
delight ; king of all the earth. 

Better the twilight of the dawn than the noon- George McDonald. 

day burning bright. 




RETIREMENT FROM THE WORLD. 

(From "The Rambler.") 

N him that appears to pass through things temporal with no other care than not to lose 
finally the things eternal, I look with such veneration as inclines me to approve his 
conduct in the whole, without a minute examination of its parts ; yet I could never 
forbear to wish, that while Vice is every day multiplying seducements, and stalking 
forth with more hardened effrontery, Virtue would not withdraw the influence of her pres- 
ence, or forbear to assert her natural dignity by open and undaunted perseverance in the right. 
Piety practiced in solitude, like the flower that blooms in the desert, may give its fragrance 
to the winds of heaven, and delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of God and 
the actions of men ; but it bestows no assistance upon earthly beings, and, however free from 
taints of impurity, yet wants the sacred splendour of beneficence. 

Samuel Johnson. 
o 



" THERE'S A SILVER LIJflJ^G TO 

EVERY CLOUD," 

rpHE poet or priest who told us this 

^ Served mankind in the holiest way ; 
For it lit up the earth with the star of bliss 

That beacons the soul with cheerful ray. 
Too often we wander despairing and blind. 

Breathing our useless murmurs aloud ; 
But 'tis kinder to bid us seek and find 

" A silver lining to every cloud." 

May we not walk in the dingle ground 

Where nothing but Autumn's dead leaves 
are seen ; 
But search beneath them, and peeping around 

Are the young Spring tufts of blue and 
green. 
'Tis a beautiful eye that ever perceives 

The presence of God in Mortality's crowd, 
'Tis a saving creed that thinks and believes 

" There's a silver lining to every cloud." 

Let us look closely before we condemn 
Bushes that bear no bloom nor fruit, 

There may not be beauty in leaves or stem, 
But virtue may dwell far down at the root ; 

And let us beware how we utterly spurn 
Brothers that seem all cold and proud ; 



If their bosoms were opened, perchance we 
might learn 
" There's a silver lining to every cloud." 

Let us not cast out Mercy and Truth, 

When Guilt is before us in chains and 
shame, 
When passion and vice have cankered youth. 

And Age lives on with a branded name ; 
Something of good may still be there, 

Though its voice may never be heard aloud. 
For, while black with the vapors of pestilent 
air, 

" There's a silver lining to every cloud." 

Sad are the sorrows that oftentimes come, 

Heavy and dull and blighting and chill. 
Shutting the light from our heart and our 
home. 

Marring our hopes and defying our will ; 
But let us not sink beneath the woe ; 

'Tis well perchance we are tried and bowed; 
For be sure, though we may not oft see it be- 
low, 

" There's a silver lining to every cloud." 

And when stern Death, with skeleton hand, 
Has snatched the flower that grew in our 
breast, 
Do we not think of a fairer land , 



602 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 




" There's a silver liiiinEf to every cloud." 



Where the lost are found, and the weary at The shadow is dense, but Faith's spirit-voice 

rest? sings, 

Oh, the hope of the unknown Future springs, " There's a silver lining to every cloud." 
In its purest strength o'er the coffin and shroud! Eliza Cook. 

o 



n 



RECREATIOJfS. 
ECREATION" is a second creation when weariness hath almost annihilated one's spirits. 
^ It is the breathing of the soul, which otherwise would be stifled with continual busi- 
ness. 
Spill not the morning, the quintessence of the day, in recreations ; for sleep is itself a 



rOEMS OF REFLECTION". 



recreation. Add not therefore sauce to sauce ; and he cannot properly have any title to be re- 
freshed who was not tirst faint. Pastime, like wine, is poison in the morning. It is then good 
husbandry to sow the head, which hath lain fallow all night, with some serious work. Chief- 
ly, intrench not on the Lord's day to use unlawful sports ; this were to spare thine own flock, 
and to shear God's lamb. 

Take heed of boisterous and over-violent exercises. Ringing ofttimes hath made good music 
on the bells, and put men's bodies out of tune, so that, by overheating themselves, they have 
rung their own passing-bell. Thomas Fuller. 



TEE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

T^f AUGH, and the world laughs with you, 
ilf Weep, and you weep alone. 
For the brave old earth must borrow its 
mirth — 

But has trouble enough of its own. 
Sing and the hills will answer, 

Sigh, it is lost on the air ; 
The echoes rebound to a joyful sound 

And shrink from voicing care. 

Rejoice, and men will seek you. 

Grieve, and they turn and go ; 
They want fuU measure of your pleasure, 

But they do not want your woe. 
Be glad, and your friends are many, 

Be sad, and you lose them all ; 
There are none to decline your nectared 
wine. 

But alone you must drink life's gall. 

Feast, and your halls are crowded. 

Fast, and the world goes by. 
Forget and forgive— it helps you to live. 

But no man can help you to die ; 
There's room in the halls of pleasure 

For a long and lordly train, 
But, one by one, we must all march on 

Through the narrow aisle of pain. 

Ella Wheeler Welcox. 



GIFTS. 

**/l\, WORLD God, give me wealth!" the 
vl/ Egyptian cried. 
His prayer was granted. High as heaven, 
behold 
Palace and pyramid : the brimming tide 
Of lavish Nile washed all his land with 
gold. 
Armies of slaves toiled ant- wise at his 
feet, 



World-circling traffic roared through mart 
and street. • 
His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings 
enshrined. 
Set death at naught in rock-ribbed channels 
deep. 
Seek Pharaoh's race to-day and ye shall find 
Rust and the moth, silent and dusty sleep. 

" O, World God, give me beauty !" cried the 
Greek. 
His prayer was granted. All the earth be- 
came 
Plastic and vocal to his sense ; each peak, 
Each grove, each stream, quick with Pro- 
methean flame. 
Peopled the world with image grace and 

light. 
The lyre was his, and his the breathing 
might 
Of the immortal marble, his the play 
Of diamond-pointed thought and golden 
tongue. 
Go seek the sunshine-race; ye find to-day 
A broken column and a lute unstrung. 

" O, World God, give me power !" the Roman 
cried. 
His prayer was granted. The vast world 
was chained 
A captive to the chariot of his pride. 
The blood of myriad provinces was drained 
To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart. 
Invulnerably bulwarked every part 
With serried legions and with close-meshed 
code; 
Within, the burrowing worm has gnawed 
its home; 
A roofless ruin stands where once abode 
The imperial race of everlasting Rome. 

" O, Godhead, give me truth !" the Hebrew 
cried. 
His prayer was granted ; he became a slave 
Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide. 



604 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Curst, hated, spurned, and scourged with 
none to save. 
The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece 

beheld. 
His wisdom w^ore the hoary crown of Eld. 
Beauty he hath forsworne, and wealth and 
power. 
Seek him to-day, and find in every land, 
No fire consumes him, neither floods devour; 
Immortal through the lamp within his hand. 

Emma Lazarus. 



We wove a web of doubt and fear — 
Not faith, and hope and love. 

Because we looked at our work, and not 
At our Pattern up above. 

Phcebe Cary, 



THE XEGLECTED PATTERJf. 

WEAVER sat one day at his loom, 
Among the colors bright. 
While the pattern for his copying 
Hung fair and plain in sight. 

But the weaver's thoughts were wandering 

Away on a distant track, 
As he threw the shuttle in his hand 

Wearily forward and back. 

And he turned his dim eyes to the ground. 

And his tears fell on the woof. 
For his thoughts, alas I were not with his 
home, 

Nor the wife beneath its roof. 

When her voice recalled him suddenly 

To himself, as she sadly said: 
"Ah I woe is me I for your work is spoiled. 

And what will we do for bread ?" 

And then the weaver looked and saw 

His work must be undone ; 
For the threads were wrong and the colors 
dimmed I 

Where the bitter tears had run. 

" Alack, alack!" said the weaver, 

" And this had all been right 
If I had not looked at my work, but kept 

" The pattern in my sight I " 

Ah! sad it was for the weaver, 

And sad for his luckless wife ; 
And sad it will be for us if we say, 

At the end of our task in life, 

The colors that we had to weave 
Were bright in our early years ; 

But we wove the tissue wrong, and stained 
The woof with bitter tears. 




"A weaver sat one day nt his loom 
Among the colors bright." 



AFFIXITUS. 

J^HERE is a soul in earthly things 
W IMore subtle than the inner strife 
That beats the rosebud into life. 
Or from the bud the blossom brings. 

By every eye it is not seen ; 
For nature has her own elect, 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



605 



"Whose instinct can alone detect 
Tke soul behind the shifting screen. 

The flower feels the dew, but not 
The diamond in the dewdrop's crypt, 
The bee, the flower from which it sipped 

The sweet ; its beauty is forgot.' 

The brute beholds wide lake and lea. 
The grass devours, the water drinks 
In eager haste, but never thinks 

Of beauty or immensity. 

So earthy minds the earthy feel; 
Though dead to beauty, well content, 
The soul awaits for whooi 'twas meant. 

Thus instinct is to instinct leal. 

C. R. Lathkop. 



VAJVITT FAIR. 

' ''VJT" AXIT AS vanitatum" has rung in the ears 
W Of gentle and simple for thousands of 

years; 
The wail still is heard, yet its notes never 

scare 
Either simple or gentle from Vanity Fair. 

I often hear people abusing it, yet 

There the young go to learn, and the old to for- 
get; 

The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be 
glare. 

But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair. 

Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mind 
Atra Cura is up with the lacqueys behind ; 
Joan trudges with Jack — are the sweethearts 

aware 
Of the trouble that waits them in Vanity Fair? 

We saw them all go, and we something may 

learn 
Of the harvest they reap when we see them 

return ; 
The tree was enticing, its branches are bare — 
Heigh-ho for the promise of Vanity Fair ! 

That stupid old Dives, once honest enough. 
His honesty sold for star, ribbon, and stuff"; 
And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with 

care 
Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair. 



Contemptible Dives! too credulous Joan! 
Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own : 
My son, you have yours, but you need not de- 
spair — 
I own I've a weakness for Vanity Fair. 

Philosophy halts, wisest councils are vain — 
We go, we repent, we return there again ; 
To-night you will certainly meet with us 

there — 
So come and be merry in Vanity Fair. 

Frederick Locker. 



HIGH DATS A.YD HOLIDAYS. 

§LONG and lagging hours of time. 
How heavily the hope you mock. 
How slow you creep across the clock, 
When the child waits for you to chime 
The year returning in its prime — 
Yet all so glad I yet all so glad ! 

O hurrying hours, when age is nigh. 
So breathlessly you sweep along. 
So fast your flashing circles throng 
By failing sense and dazzled eye, 
We scarcely see them as they fly — 
And all so sad ! and all so sad ! 

Harriet Prescott Spofford. 



(From 



SOLITUDE. 

'The Search After Happiness. ") 



§WEET Solitude, thou placid queen, 
Of modest air, and brow serene ! 
'Tis thou inspirest the sage's themes, 
The poet's visionary dreams. 

Parent of Virtue, nurse of Thought, 
By thee were saints and patriarchs taught; 
Wisdom from thee her treasures drew, 
And in thy lap fair Science grew. 

Whate'er exalts, refines and charms, 
Invites to thought, to virtue warms, 
Whate'er is perfect, fair, and good, 
We owe to thee, sweet Solitude ! 

In these blest shades, oh, still maintain 
Thy peaceful, unmolested reign ! 
Let no disordered thoughts intrude 
On thy repose, sweet Solitude ! 

With thee the charms of life shall last, 
Although its rosy bloom be past. 
Shall still endure when time shall spread 
His silver blossoms o'er my head. 



606 



POEMS OF llEFLECTIOK^. 



No more with this vain world perplexed, 
Thou Shalt prepare me for the next ; 
The springs of life shall gently cease, 
And angels point the way to peace. 

Hannah More. 



llS%;. 




Mrs. Hannah More. 



APOSTROPHE TO SLEEP. 

(From the Second Part of King Henry IV., Act 111., 
Scene 1.) 

MOW many thousands of my poorest sub- 
jects 
Are at this hour asleep! — Sleep, gentle sleep, 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee. 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
And steep my senses in forgetfulness? 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs. 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy 

slumber; 
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great. 
Under the canopies of costly state. 
And luU'd with sounds of sweetest melody? 
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile. 
In loathsome beds : and leav'st the kingly 

couch, 
A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell ? 
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his 

brains 



In cradle of the rude imperious surge ; 
And in the visitation of the winds. 
Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and banging 

them 
With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds. 
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? 
Canst thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; 
And, in the calmest and most stillest night. 
With all appliances and means to boot, 
Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, lie down I 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 

William Shakspere. 



ODE OJY SOLITUDE. 

(Written wlieu tlie author was about twelve years old.) 

MAPPY the man whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound. 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with 
bread. 
Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter fire. 

Blessed, who can unconcernedly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away. 
In health of body, peace of mind. 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
Together mixed ; sweet recreation. 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus, unlamented, let me die. 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope. 



SOjYG, 

(Made extempore by a gentleman, occasioned by a fly 
drinking out of his cup of ale.) 

§USY, curious, thirsty fly. 
Drink with me, and drink as I; 
Freely welcome to my cup, 
Couldst thou sip and sip it up. 
Make the most of life you may; 
Life is short and wears awav. 



POEMS OF HEFLECTION'. 



607 



Both alike are mine and thine, 
Hastening quick to their decline ; 
Thine's a summer, mine no more, 
Though repeated to threescore ; 



Threescore summers, when they're 

gone, 
Will appear as short as one. 

William Oldys. 



SLEEP. 
^^ jw 'OR do but consider what an excellent thing sleep is ! it is so inestimable a jewel, that, 
^%\ if ^ tyrant would give his crown for an hour's slumber, it cannot he bought ; of sobeau- 
X tiful a shape it is, that, though a man live with an empress, his heart cannot be at quiet 
till he leaves her embracements to be at rest with the other : yea, so greatly are we in- 
debted to this kinsman of death, that we owe the better tributary half of our life to him; 
and there is good cause why we should do so; for sleep is that golden chain that ties health and 
our bodies together. Who complains of want, of wounds, of cares, of great men's oppres- 
sions, of captivity, whilst he sleepeth? Beggars in their beds take as much pleasure as kings. 
Can we therefore surfeit on this delicate ambrosia ? Can we drink too much of that, whereof 
to taste too little, tumbles us into a churchyard, and to use it but indifferently throws us into 
Bedlam? No, no. Look upon Endymion^ the moon's minion, who slept threescore and fifteen 



years, and was not a hair the worse for it ! 



Thomas Dekker. 



AjY easterjY apologue. 

W{ ELIK, the Sultan, tired and wan, 
J@i Nodded at noon on his divan. 

Beside the fountain lingered near 
Jamil, the bard, and the vizier — 

Old Yusuf sour and hard to please ; 
Then Jamil sang in words like these : 

Slim is Butheina — slim is she 
As boughs of the Araka tree ! 

" Nay," quoth the other, teeth between ; 
" Lean, if you will — I call her lean." 

Sweet is Butheina — sweet as wine. 
With smiles that like red bubbles shine ! 

"True — by the Prophet!" Yusuf said, 
"She makes men wander in the head!" 

Dear is Butheina — ah! more dear 
Than all the maidens of Kashmeer ! 

"Dear," came the answer, quick as thought, 
" Dear — and yet always to be bought." 

So Jamil ceased. But still life's page 
Shows diverse unto Youth and Age ; 

And be the song of Ghouls or Gods — 
Time, like the Sultan, sits and nods. 

Austin Dobson. 



THE SHOBTJ\''ESS OF LIFE. 

AND what's a life ? A weary pilgrimage. 
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage 
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. 



And what's a life ? The flourishing array 
Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay. 

Read on this dial, how the shades devour 
My short-lived winter's day ; hour eats up 

hour; 
Alas! the total's but from eight to four. 



Behold these lilies, which thy hands have 

made 
Fair copies of my life, and open laid 
To view, how soon they droop! how soon 

they fade ! 

Shade not that dial night will blind too soon ; 
My non-aged day already points to noon ; 
How simple is my suit ! how small my boon ! 

Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile 
The time away, or falsely to beguile 
My thoughts with joy ; here's nothing worth 
a smile. 

Francis Quarles. 



608 



POEMS OF REFLECTION". 



SIC VITA. 

[2 IKE to the falling of a star, 
iM Or as the flights of eagles are, 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. 
Or silver drops of morning dew. 
Or like the wind that chafes the flood. 
Or bubbles which on water stood, 
Even such is man whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
The spring entombed in autumn lies. 
The dew dries up, the star is shot. 
The flight is past, and man forgot. 

Henry King. 



LIFE. 



TJ IFE! I know not w^hat thou art, 
mi But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own, to me's a secret yet. 

Life ! we've been long together. 
Through pleasant and through cloudy 

weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 

Then steal away, give little warning ; 
Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good-Night, but in some brighter 
clime, 

Bid me Good-Morning. 

Anna L^titia Barbauld. 



LIFE, 

Y life is like the summer rose 
)f <:vA That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close, 

'Tis scattered on the ground, to die! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed. 
The sweetest dews of night are shed. 
As if she wept the waste to see ; 

But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray; 
Its hold is frail, its date is brief, 

Eestless and soon to pass away! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall ftill and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree ; 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me! 



My life is like the prints which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat. 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet as if grieving to efl'ace 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea ; 
But none, alas! shall mourn for me. 

Richard Henry Wilde. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

what the heart of the young man said to the 
psalmist. 

[W^ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 

P Life is but an empty dream : 
For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dnst thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 
And our hearts, though stout and 
brave. 

Still, like muffled drums are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead! 
Act, act in the living present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
"VVe can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us, 
Footprints on the sands of Time ; 

Footprints that, perhaps, another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 



POEMS OF KEFLECTION. 



609 



Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. 



FATE. 



J^HE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare I 
"P The spray of the tempest is white in air ; 
The winds are out with the waves at play, 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 



The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 
The panther clings to the arching limb. 
And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, 
And I shall not join in the chase to-day. 

But the ship sailed safely over the sea ! 

And the hunters came from the chase in 

glee; 
And the town that was builded upon a 

rock, 
Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. 
(Francis) Bret Harte. 



WISDOM. 

PEOPLE always fancy that we must become old to become wise ; but in truth, as years 
advance, it is hard to keep ourselves as wise as we were. Man becomes, indeed, in 
the different stages of life, a different being ; but he cannot say that he is a better one, 
and in certain matters he is as likely to be as right in his twentieth as in his sixtieth 
year. Johaxn Wolfgang von Goethe. 




JoHANN Wolfgang von Goethe. 



VKITY OF jYATURE. 

(From "An Essay on Man.") 

SLL are but parts of one stupendous 
whole. 
Whose body nature is, and God the soul, 



That, changed through all, and yet in all the 

same, 
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame; 
AVarms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives through all life, extends through all ex- 
tent 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent. 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part. 
As fall, as perfect, in a hair as heart. 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns ; 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 
Cease then, nor order imperfection name ; 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point; this kind, this due de- 
gree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on 

thee ; 
Submit ; in this or any other sphere, 
■ Secure to be as blessed as thou canst bear; 
Safe in the hands of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art unknown to thee. 
All chance, direction which thou cans't not 

see, 
All discord, harmony not understood, 
All partial evil, universal good ; 
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 
One truth is clear: Whatever Is, Is Eight. 
Alexander Pope. 



il 



610 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



HUMAJf LIFE. 

(Opening Lines.) 

fHE lark has sung his carol in the sky ; 
The bees have hummed their noon-tide 

harmony ; 
Still in the vale the village bells ring round, 
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound ; 
For now the caudle-cup is circling there, 
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breath their 

prayer, 
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire 
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. 
A few short years, and then these sounds shall 

hail - 
The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; 
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, 
Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin; 
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber 

shine ; 
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze. 
Mid many a tale told of his boyish days. 
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, 
*"Twas on these knees he often sat and 

smiled!" 
And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; 
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the 

trees 
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be 

sung. 
And violets scattered round; and old and 

young, 
In every cottage porch, with garlands green. 
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; 
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side 
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. 
And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour. 
Another voice shall come from yonder tower, 
When in dim chambers long black weeds are 

seen. 
And weepings heard where only joy has been ; 
When by his children borne, and from his door. 
Slowly departing to return no more. 
He rests in holy earth with them that went 

before. 
And such is human life; so, gliding on, 
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone: 
Yet is the tale, though brief it be, as strange, 
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous 

change, 
As any that the wondering tribes require. 
Stretched in the desert round their evening 

fire; 
As any sung of old in hall or bower 



To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching 

hour. 
Born in a trance, M'e wake, observe, inquire. 
And the green earth, the azure sky, admire. 
Of elfin size, forever as we run, 
We cast a longer shadow in the sun ; 
And now a charm, and now a grace, is won; 
We grow in stature, and in wisdom too. 
And as new scenes, new objects rise to view. 
Think nothing done while aught remains to do. 
Yet, all forgot, how oft the eyelids close. 
And from the slack hand drops the gathered 

rose : 
How oft as dead, on the warm turf we lie. 
While many an emmet comes with curious 

eye, 
And on her nest the watchful wren sits by : 
Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see ; 
So like what once we were, and once again 

shall be ! 
And say, how soon, where, blithe and inno- 
cent. 
The boy at sunrise caroled as he went. 
An aged pilgrim on his staff shall lean. 
Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the green; 
The man himself how altered, not the scene ! 
Now journeying home with nothing but the 

name, 
Wayworn and spent, another, and the same : 
No eye observes the growth or the decay ; 
To-day we look as we did yesterday. 
And we shall look to-morrow as to-day. 

Sai^iuel Rogers. 



majY's mob TALITY. 

Tji? IKE as the damask rose you see, 
jIm Or like the blossom on the tree. 
Or like the dainty flower in May, 
Or like the morning of the day. 
Or like the sun, or like the shade, 
Or like the gourd which Jonas had. 
E'en such is man; whose thread is spun, 
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. 
The rose withers ; the blossom blasteth ; 
The flower fades ; the morning hasteth ; 
The sun sets ; the shadow flies ; 
The gourd consumes ; and man he dies ! 

Like as the grass that's newly sprung. 
Or like a tale that's new begun. 
Or like the bird that's here to-day, 
Or like the pearled dew of May, 
Or like an hour, or like a span, 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



611 



Or like the singing of a swan, 
E'en such is man, who lives by breath, 
Is here, now there, in life and death. 
The grass withers ; the tale is ended ; 
The bird is flown ; the dew's ascended; 
The hour is short ; the span is long; 
The swan's near death ; man^slife is done! 
Simon Wastel. 



To every hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were poured, 
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



FROM "FESTUSr 

\i^f'Ei live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, 

not breaths ; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He 

most lives. 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the 

best. 
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the 

longest : 
Lives in one hour more than in years do some 
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along the 

veins. 
Life is but a means unto an end ; that end, 
Beginning, mean, and end to all things — God. 
The dead have all the glory of the world. 
Philip James Bailey. 



THE VOICELESS. 

M'iCE count the broken lyres that rest 
ViHiJ Where the sweet wailing singers slum- 
ber, 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild flowers who will stoop to number? 
A few can touch the magic string. 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them ; 
Alas for those that never sing. 

But die with all their music in them ; 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story; 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
But where the glistening nightdews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 

O hearts that break and give no sign 
Save whitening lip and fading tresses. 

Till death pours out his cordial wine 
Slow dropped from Misery's crushing press- 
es, 

If singing breath or echoing chord 



TIME. 



(From "The Antiquary.") 

W'HY sitt'st thou by that ruined hall. 
Thou aged earle, so stern and gray ? 
Dost thou its former pride recall. 
Or ponder how it passed away ?" 

" Know'st thou not me ?" the deep voice 
cried ; 

" So long enjoyed, so oft misused ; 
Alternate, in thy fickle pride, 

Desired, neglected and accused ! 

" Before my breath, like blazing flax, 
Man and his marvels pass away ; 

And changing empires wane and wax. 
Are founded, flourish, and decay. 

"■ Redeem mine hours ; the space is brief 
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver!" 

And measureless thy joy or grief 
When Time and thou shall part forever !" 
Sir Walter Scott. 



MELAJ^CHOLY. 

(From " Nice Valor.") 

MENCE, all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights 
Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There's naught in this life sweet. 
If man were wise to see't. 
But only melancholy, 
Oh, sweetest melancholy! 
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fastened to the ground, 
A tongue chained up without a sound ! 
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves. 
Places which pale passion loves ! 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed save bats and owls, 
A midnight bell, a parting groan. 
These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy 

valley ; 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melan- 
choly. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



612 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



STAJfZAS. 

^ Y days among the dead are passed ; 
^/®i Around me 1 behold. 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 

The mighty minds of old ; 
My never-failing friends are they, 

With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe ; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe, 
My cheeks have often been bedewed 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the dead ; with 
them 
I live in long-past years; 
Their virtues love, their faults con- 
demn. 
Partake their hopes and fears, 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with the dead ; anon 
My place with them will be, 

And I with them shall travel on 
Through all futurity ; 

Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 

That will not perish in the dust. 

Robert Southey. 



BEAUTY FADES. 

j^RUST not, sweet soul, those curled waves 

"P of gold 

With gentle tides that on your temples flow. 

Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin 

snow, 

Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain en- 

roll'd. 
Trust not those shining lights which wrought 
my woe 
When first I did their azure rays behold, 
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects 
do show 
Than of the Thracian harper have been 
told. 
Look to this dying lily, fading rose, 
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing 
beams 
Made all the neighboring herbs and grass re- 
joice, 



And think how little is 'twixt life's ex- 
tremes ; 
The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers 
Shall once, ah, me! not spare that spring of 
yours. 

William Druivlmoxd. 




William Drummoxd. 



OLD AGE AXD DEATH. 

njHE seas are quiet when the winds give 
# o'er ; 

So calm are we when passions are no more ; 
For then we know how vain it is to boast 
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 
Clouds of aff'ection from our younger eyes 
Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed; 
Lets in new light through chinks that time 

hath made ; 
Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become, 
As they draw near to their eternal home. 
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they 

view 
That stand upon the threshold of the new. 
Edmund Waller. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



613 



THE SEASOjYS of LIFE. 
'HERE is a period when the apple-tree blossoms with its fellows of the wood and field. 
How fair a time it is! All nature is woosome and winning ; the material world cele- 
brates its vegetable loves, and the flower-bells, touched by the winds of spring, usher 
in the universal marriage of Nature. Beast, bird, insect, reptile, fish, plant, lichen, 
with their prophetic colors spread, all float forward on the tide of new life. 

Then comes the summer. Many a blossom falls fruitless to the ground, littering the earth with 
beauty, never to be used. Thick leaves hide the process of creation, which first blushed pub- 
lic in the flowers, and now unseen goes on. For so life's most deep and fruitful hours are hid 
in mystery. Apples are growing on every tree ; all summer long they grow, and in early 
autumn. 

At length the fruit is fully formed ; the leaves begin to fall, letting the sun approach more 
near. The apple hangs there yet, not to grow, only to ripen. Weeks long it clings to the 
tree ; it gains nothing in size and weight. Externally, there is increase of beauty. 

Having flnished the form from within. Nature brings out the added grace of color. It is 
not a tricksy fashion painted on, but an expression which of itself comes out; a fragrance 
and loveliness of the apple's innermost. Within, at the same time, the component elements 
are changing. 

The apple grows mild and pleasant. It softens, sweetens, in one word, it mellows. Some 
night, when the vital forces of the tree get drowsy, and the autumn, with gentle breath, just 
shakes the bough, the expectant fruit lets go its hold, full-grown, full-ripe, full-colored too, 
and, with plump and happy sound, the apple falls into the autumn's lap, and the spring's mar- 
riage promise is complete. 



So have I seen a pine-tree in the woods, old, dry at its root, weak in its limbs, capped with 
age-resembling snow ; it stood there, and seemed like to stand; but a little touch of wind 
drove it headlong, and it fell with long resounding crash. The next morning the woodsman 
is astonished that the old tree lies prostrate on the ground. This is a natural death, for the 
old tree and the venerable man. Theodore Paekek. 



LIFE. 

(From "Macbeth," Act V., Scene 5.) 

§EYMOUR. The queen, my lord, is dead, 
Macbeth. She should have died hereafter ; 
There would have been a time for such a 

word. — 
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief can- 
dle! 
Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player. 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage. 
And then is heard no more ; it is a tale, 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. 
Signifying nothing. 

William Shakspere. 
38 



XO COJ^CEALMEJ{T. 

"There is nothing covered, that shall not be reveal- 
ed ; and hid that shall not be known." 

St. Matthew. 

fHINK'ST thou to be conceal'd, thou little 
stream! 
That through the lowly vale dost wind thy 
way, 
Loving beneath the darkest arch to glide 
Of women branches, blent with hillocks 
gray? 
The mist doth track thee, and reveal thy 
course 
Unto the dawn, and a bright line of green 
Tingeth thy marge, and the white flocks that 
haste 
At summer-noon, to drjnk thy crystal sheen. 
Make plain thy wanderings to the eye of day ; 



614 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOlSr. 



And then thy smiling answer to the moon, 
Whose beams so freely on thy bosom sleep, 

Unfold thy secret, even to night's dull noon. 
How couldst thou hope, in such a w orld as 

this, 
To shroud thy gentle path of beauty and of 
bliss ? 

Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little seed! 

That in the bosom of the earth art cast. 
And there, like cradled infant, sleep'st 
awhile. 
Unmoved by trampling storm, or thunder 
blast ? 
Thou bidest thy time, for herald spring shall 
come 
And wake thee, all unwilling as thou art, 
Unhood thine eyes, unfold thy clasping sheath, 

And stir the languid pulses of thy heart. 
The loving rains shall woo thee, and the dews 
Weep o'er thy bed, till, ere thou art aware. 
Forth steals the tender leaf, the wiry stem. 
The trembling bud, the flower that scents 
the air; 
And soon, to all, thy ripen'd fruitage tells 
The evil or the good that in thy nature dwells. 

Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little 
thought ! 
That in the curtained chamber of the soul 
Dost wrap thyself so close, and dream to do 

A hidden work? Look to the hues that roll 
O'er the changed brow, the moving lip be- 
hold, 



Linking thee unto sound, the feet that run 
Upon thine errands, and the deeds that stamp 
Thy likeness plain before the noonday sun. 
Look to the pen that writes thy history down 
In those tremendous books that ne'er un- 
close 
Until the Day of Doom ; and blush to see 

How vain thy trust in darkness to repose. 
Where all things tend to judgment. So be- 
ware ^ 
Oh! erring human heart, what thoughts thou 
lodgest there. 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 




Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 



MIDDLE AGE. 

(From "An Essay on an Old Subject.") 

!N" the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, 
when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and 
you can feel the breath of winter morning and evening; no days so calm, so tenderly 
solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air. The lyrical up-burst of the lark 
at such a time would be incongruous. The only sounds suitable to the season are the rusty 
caw of the homeward sliding rook, the creaking of the wain returning empty from the farm- 
yard. There is "an unrest which men miscall delight," and of that unrest youth is for the 
most part composed. From that, middle age is free. The setting suns of youth are crimson 
and gold ; the setting suns of middle age 

" Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality." 

Youth is the slave of beautiful faces, and fine eyes, and silver-sweet voices; they 
distract, madden, alarm. To middle age they are but the gracefuUest statues, the loveliest 
poems. They delight, but hurt not. They awake no passion, they heighten no pulse. And 
the imaginative man of middle a^e possesses after a fashion all the passionate turbulence, all 



POEMS OF REFLECTIOIT. 



615 



the keen delights, of his earlier days. They are not dead ; they are dwelling in the ante- 
chamber of memory, awaiting his call ; and when they are called, they wear an ethereal some- 
thing which is not their own. The Muses are the daughters of Memory ; youth is the time 
to love, but middle age the period at which the best love-poetry is written. And middle age, 
too, the earlier period of it, when a man is master of his instruments and knows wliat he can 
do, is the best season of intellectual activity. The playful capering flames of a newly kin- 
dled fire are a pretty sight ; but not nearly so effective, any housewife will tell you, as 
when the flames are gone, and the whole mass of fuel has become caked into a sober redness 
that emits a steady glow. There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve. 
A silver wedding is better than the voice of the epithalamium. And the most beautiful face 
that ever was is made yet more beautiful when there is laid upon it the reverence of silver 
hairs. Alexander Smith. 




Alexander Smith. 



HAMLETS SOLILOQUY. 

(From " Hamlet," Act III., Scene 1.) 

TjTAMLET. To be, or not to be, that is the 
my^ question : 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And, by opposing, end them? To die,— to 
sleep, — 



N'o more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural 

shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die; — to sleep; — 
To sleep ! perchance to dream; ay, there's the 

rub; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may 

come. 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause : There's the respect. 
That makes calamity of so long life : 
For who would bear the whips and scorns of 

time. 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's con- 
tumely. 
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay. 
The insolence of oflftce, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels 

bear. 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; 
But that the dread of something after 

death, — 
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn 
No traveller returns, — puzzles the will ; 
And makes us rather bear those ills we 

have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of? 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us 

all; . 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment. 
With this regard, their currents turn awry. 
And lose the name of action. 

William Shakspere. 




Q<^-oy^y(^ i^Cl^ 



\ 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



617 



THE CIRCLE OF LIFE. 

(From "Romola. ") 

'HE great river-courses which have shaped the lives of men have hardly changed; and 
those other streams, the life-currents that ebb and flow in human hearts, pulsate to 
the same great needs, the same great loves and terrors. As our thought follows close 
in the slow wake of the dawn, we are impressed with the broad sameness of the hu- 
man lot, which never alters in the main headings of its history, hunger and labor, seed time 
and harvest, love and death. 

Even if, instead of following the dim daybreak, our imagination pauses on a certain histori- 
cal spot, and awaits the fuller morning, we may see a world-famous city, which has hardly 
changed its outline since the days of Columbus, seeming to stand as an almost unviolated 
symbol, amidst the flux of human things, to remind us that we still resemble the men of the 
past more than we differ from them, as the great mechanical principles on which those domes 
and towers were raised must make a likeness in human building that will be broader and 
deeper than all possible change. Marian Evans Cross. 

(''George Eliot.") 



DEATH'S FIJfAL CONQUEST. 

fW^HE glories of our blood and state, 

W Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings ; 
Scepter and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
They tame but one another still ; 
Early or late. 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath. 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 
See where the victor-victim bleeds ; 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. 

James Shirley. 



ELEGY, WRITTEN IJ^ A COUJ^- 
TR r CHURCHYARD. 
HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the 
lea, 



The plowman homeward plods his weary 
way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning 
flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's 
shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a moulder- 
ing heap. 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
The swallow twittering from the straw- 
built shed. 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly 
bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall 
burn, 

Or busy house-wife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return. 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 



618 



POEMS OF EEFLECTIOISr. 



Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 
broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let not A mbition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er 
gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour; 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

l^OT you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fret- 
ted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of 
praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of 
Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial 
fire; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have 
swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er un- 
roll; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
'J'he dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless 
breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's 
blood. 



The applause of listening senates to com- 
mand. 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- 
fined; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to 
hide. 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
decked. 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their names, their years, spelled the unletter- 
ed muse. 

The place of fame and elegy supply; 
Ahd many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate. 

E'en chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of 
dawn. 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



619 



"There at the foot of yonder nodding 

beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noontide would he 

stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would 
rove ; 
Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless 
love. 

"One morn, I missed him on the customed 
hill, 

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 
Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 

Kor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

"The next with dirges due in sad array, 
Slow through the churchway path we saw 
him borne : 



Approach and read (for thou canst read) the 
lay, 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth. 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
He gave to misery, all he had, a tear ; 

He gained from Heaven, 'tv/as all he wish- 
ed, a friend. 

^N'o further seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose ;) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray. 



U^ Cj-rt/^i^ t^U.^ >U-/^Q <fU?-n) U^ a ^^^- tHJ^ . '^'^^ 



/-'- 



h^*'<^m.C'C£ Q7€ 



t^rxr- 



fTf^ 



WRY THUS LOJVGIJ^G? 

^/"HY thus longing, thus forever sighing. Poor indeed thou mast be, if around thee 

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw. 
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some little world through weal and woe; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, — 
No fond voices answer to thine own ; 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten. 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Harriet Winslow. 



For the far-off, unattained and dim, 
While the beautiful, all round thee lying. 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

"Would'st thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
AU thy restless yearnings it would still ; 

Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to 
fill. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



621 



OK A SKULL. 

(From " Childe Harold," Canto II.) 

|S this a temple where a god may dwell? 
C Why, even the worm at last disdains her 
shattered cell. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul. 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul. 
Behold through each lack-luster, eyeless 
hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, 
And Passion's host, that never brooked con- 
trol. 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ. 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 
George Gordon, Lord Byrox. 



TEAjYATOPSIS, 

fO him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 

speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow 

house. 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around. 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air. 
Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and 

thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more . 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many 

tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall 

claim, 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 
To be a brother to the insensible rock, 



And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 

swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The 

oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 

mould. 



Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world, with 

kings. 
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, 
Eock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the 

vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, poured 

round all. 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the still abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that 

tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings; yet the dead are 

there. 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them 

down 
In their last sleep ; the dead reign there 

alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall 

leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall 

come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long 

train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men. 




G^kUiU^^dcUv 



l^ 



U^iyzi^ 



ci:^ 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



623 



The youth in life's green spring, and he who 

goes 
In the fall strength of years, matron, and 

maid. 
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side 
By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to 

join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall 

take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 

soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

WiLLIAJI CULLEN BrYANT. 



THE DAYS THAT ABE JYO MORE. 

JWJEARS, idle tears, I know not what they 
F mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the under- 

w^orld. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks wdth all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
Oh, death in life! the days that are no more. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



EXCELSIOR. 

OTHE shades of night were falling fast, 
F As through an Alpine village pass'd 
A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner, with the strange device — 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath ; 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue — 
Excelsior! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan — 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the pass," the old man said : 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

" Oh stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy w^eary head upon this breast !" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answer'd with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

'• Beware the pine tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last good-night : 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveler, by the faithful hound. 
Half buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star — 
Excelsior ! 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



624 



POEMS OF HEFLECTIOI^. 



A HUXDRED TEARS TO COME. 

WHO'LL press for gold this crowded street, 
A hundred years to come ? 
AVho'll tread yon church with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Pale, trembling age and fiery youth. 
And childhood with his brow of truth. 
The rich and poor, on land, on sea. 
Where will the mighty millions be, 
A hundred years to come ? 



We all within our graves shall sleep, 

A hundred years to come ; 
No living soul for us will weep, 

A hundred years to come; 
But other men our land will till. 
And others then our streets will fill, 
And other words will sing as gay, 
And bright the sunshine as to-day, 

A hundred years to come. 

Wttjjam Goldsmith Brown. 




I 




>V HlSPBRiyOS OF rA>'CY, 




It was a strange and lovely sight 
To see the puny goblin there." 



pOEMp OF I^ANCY, 



THE CULPRIT FAY. 

("The exquisite poem of 'The Culprit Fay' was com- 
posed hastily among the Highlands of the Hudson in the 
summer of 1819. The author was walking with some 
friends on a warm moonlight evening, when one of the 
partyremarked that it would be difficult to write a fairy 
poem, purely imaginative, without the aid of human char- 
acters. The party was re-assembled two or three days af- 
terward, and 'The Culprit Fay' was read to them, nearly 
as it is now printed.") 

*f^IS the middle watch of a summer's night; 
'^ The earth is dark, but the heavens are 
bright ; 
Naught is seen in the vault on high 
But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless 

sky, 
And the flood which rolls its milky hue, 
A river of light on the welkin blue. 



The moon looks down on old Cronest, 
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, 
And seems his huge gray form to throw 
In a silver cone on the wave below. 
His sides are broken by spots of shade, 
By the walnut-bough and the cedar made, 
And through their clustering branches dark 
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark. 
Like starry twinkles that momently break 



Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's 
rack. 

The stars are on the moving stream. 

And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 
A burnished length of wavy beam 

In an eel-like, spiral line below ; 
The winds are whist, and the owl is still, 

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. 
And naught is heard on the lonely hill 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 

Of the gauze- winged katydid, 
And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will. 
Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings 

Ever a note of wail and woe. 
Till morning spreads her rosy wings. 

And earth and sky in her glances glow. 

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell ; 
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; 
He has counted them all with click and stroke 
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak. 
And he has awakened the sentry elve 

Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree. 
To bid him ring the hour of twelve. 

And call the fays to their revelry. 
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell— r 



POEMS OF FAITCY. 



'Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell — 
"Midnight comes, and all is well! 
Hither, hither, wing your way ! 
'Tis the dawn of the fairy day." 

They come from beds of lichen green. 
They creep from the mullein's velvet screen ; 
Some on the backs of beetles fly 

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, 
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks 
high. 

And rocked about in the evening breeze ; 
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest ; 

They had driven him out by elfin power. 
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast. 
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour ; 
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock. 

With glittering ising-stars inlaid ; 
And some had opened the four-o'clock. 

And stole within its purple shade. 

And now they throng the moon-light glade, 
Above, below, on every side. 

Their little minim forms arrayed 
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. 

They come not now to print the lea. 
In freak and dance around the tree, 
Or at the mushroom board to sup. 
And drink the dew from the buttercup. 
A scene of sorrow waits them now, 
For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; 
He has loved an earthly maid. 
And left for her his woodland shade, 
He has lain upon her lip of dew. 
And sunned him in her eye of blue. 
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, 
Played in the ringlets of her hair, 
And, nestling on her snowy breast, 
Forgot the lily-king's behest. 
For this the shadowy tribes of air 

To the elfln court must haste away. 
And now they stand expectant there. 

To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. 

The throne was reared upon the grass, 
Of spicewood and the sassafras ; 
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 

Hung the burnished canopy. 
And over it gorgeous curtains fell 

Of the tulip's crimson drapery. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat. 

On his brow the crown imperial shone, 
The prisoner fay was at his feet, 

And his peers were ranged around the 
throne, 



He waved his scepter in the air. 

He looked around and calmly spoke ; 
His brow was grave, and his eye severe, 

But his voice in a softened accent broke : 

■» 

" Fairy, Fairy, listen and mark! 

Thou hast broken thine elfin chain, 
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark. 

And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain ; 
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity 

In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye; 
Thou hast scorned our dread decree. 

And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high ; 
But well I know her sinless mind 
Is pure as the angel forms above. 
Gentle and meek and chaste and kind, 

Such as a spirit well might love ; 
Fairy ! had she spot or taint. 
Bitter had been thy punishment ! 
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings. 
Tossed on the pricks of nettle stings, 
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell 
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell, 
Or every night to writhe and bleed 
Beneath the tread of the centipede. 
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim. 
Your jailer a spider huge and grim. 
Amid the carrion bodies to lie 
Of the worm and the bug and the murdered 

fly; 

These it had been your lot to bear, 

Had a stain been found on the earthly fair; 

Now list, and mark our mild decree ; 

Fairy, this your doom must be : 

" Thou Shalt seek the beach of sand, 
Where the water bounds the elfin land ; 
Thou Shalt watch the oozy brine 
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moon- 
shine. 
Then dart the glistening arch below. 
And catch a drop from his silver bow. 
The water-sprites will wield their arras, 

And dash around with roar and wave. 
And vain are the woodland spirit's charms. 

They are the imps that rule the wave. 
Yet trust thee in the single might : 
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right. 
Thou Shalt win the warlock fight. 

"If the spray-bead gem be won. 
The stain of thy wing is washed away; 

But another errand must be done 
Ere thy crime be lost for aye : 

Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and d^k, 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



629 



Thou must re-illume its spark. 

Mount thy steed and spur him high 

To the heaven's blue canopy, 

And when thou seest a shooting star, 

Follow it fast and follow it far; 

The last faint spark of its burning train 

Shall light the elfin lamp again. 

Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay; 

Hence, to the water-side, away!" 



The goblin marked his monarch well ; 

He spake no word, but he bowed low. 
Then plucked a crimson colon-bell. 

And turned him round in act to go. 
The way is long, he cannot fly. 

His soiled wing has lost its power. 
And he winds adown the mountain high 

For many a sore and weary hour ; 
Through dreary beds of tangled fern ; 
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern ; 
Over the grass and through the brake. 
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake ; 
Now over the violet's azure flush 

He skips along in lightsome mood ; 
And now he threads the bramble-bush. 

Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. 
He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the 

brier. 
He has swum the brook, and waded the mire. 
Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak, 
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. 
He had fallen to the gound outright, 

For rugged and dim was his onward track. 
But there came a spotted toad in sight, 

And he laughed as he jumped upon her 
back. 
He bridled her mouth with a silk-weed twist. 

He lashed her sides with an ozier thong ; 
And now through evening's dewy mist, 

With leap and spring they bound along, 
Till the mountain's magic verge is past, 
And the beach of sand is reached at last. 
Soft and pale is the moony beam, 
Moveless still the glassy stream ; 
The wave is clear; the beach is bright 

With snowy shells and sparkling stones; 
The shore-surge comes in ripples light, 

In murmurings faint, and distant moans ; 
And ever, afar in the silence deep, 
Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap. 
And the bend of his graceful bow is seen, 
A glittering arch of silver sheen. 
Spanning the wave of burnished blue. 
And dripping with gems of the river-^ew, 



The elfin cast a glance around 

As he lighted down from his courser toad. 
Then round his breast his wings he wound. 

And close to the river's bank he strode ; 
He sprung on a rock, he breathed a prayer. 

Above his head his arras he threw. 
Then tossed a tiny curve in air. 

And headlong plunged in the waters blue. 
Up sprung the spirits of the waves 
From the sea-silk beds in the coral caves, 
With snail-plate armor snatched in haste, 
They speed their way through the liquid 

waste ; 
Some are rapidly borne along 
On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong ; 
Some on blood-red leeches glide ; 
Some on the stony star-fish ride ; 
Some on the back of the lancing squab ; 
Some on the sideling soldier-crab ; 
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings 
At once a thousand streamy stings. 
They cut the wave with the living oar. 
And hurry on to the moonlit shore. 
To guard their realm, and chase away 
The footsteps of the invading fay. 

Fearlessly he skims along ; 
His hope is high, and his limbs are strong ; 
He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, 
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling ; 
His locks of gold on the water shine. 

At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise. 
His back gleams bright above the brine. 

And the w^ake-line foam behind him lies. 
But the water-sprites are gathering near 

To check his course along the tide ; 
Their warriors come in swift career, 

And hem him round on every side ; 
On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold. 
The quarl's long arms are round him rolled. 
The prickly prong has pierced his skin, 
And the squab has thrown his javelin. 
The gritty star has rubbed him raw. 
And the crab has struck with his giant claw. 
He howls with rage, and he shrieks with 

pain; 
He strikes around, but his blows are vain ; 
Hopeless is the unequal fight ; 
Fairy, naught is left but flight! 

He turned him round, and fled amain 
With hurry and dash to the beach again ; 
He twisted over from side to side. 
And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide ; 



630 



The strokes of his plunging arras are fleet, 
And with all his might he flings his feet, 
But the water-sprites are round him still, 
To cross his path, and work him ill. 
They bade the waves before him rise, 
They flung the sea-fire in his eyes. 
And they stunned his ears with the scallop- 
stroke, 
With the porpoise-heave, and the drumfish 

croak. 
Oh! but a weary wight was he, 
When he reached the foot of the dog- wood 

tree. 
Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore, 
He laid him down on the sandy shore ; 
He blessed the force of the charmed line. 
And he banned the water-goblins' spite, 
For he saw around in the sweet moonshine 
Their little wee faces above the brine. 

Giggling and laughing with all their might 

At the piteous hap of the fairy wight. 
Soon he gathered the balsam dew 

From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud ; 
Over each wound the balm he drew, 

And with cobweb lint he staunched the 
blood. 
The mild w:est wind was soft and low, 
It cooled the heat of his burning brow. 
And he felt new life in his sinews shoot 
As he sucked the juice of the calamus root; 
And now he treads the fatal shore. 
As fresh and vigorous as before. 

Wrapped in musing stands the sprite ; 
'Tis the middle wane of night; 
His task is hard, his way is far. 

But he must do his errand right, 
Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, - 

And rolls her chariot wheel of light ; 
And vain are the spells of fairy-land ; 
He must work with a human hand. 

He cast a saddened look around. 

But he felt new joy his bosom swell, 
When glittering on the shadowed ground, 

He saw a purple mussel-shell. 
Thither he ran, and he bent him low, 
He heaved at the stern, and heaved at the 

bow, 
And he pushed her over the yielding sand. 
Till he came to the verge of the haunted land. 
She was as lovely a pleasure-boat 
As every fairy had traveled in. 
For she glowed with purple paint without. 
And shone with silvery pearl within ; 



A sculler's notch in the stern he made. 

An oar he shaped of the bootle blade, 

Then sprung to the seat with a lightsome leap, 

And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. 

The imps of the river yell and rave ; 

They had no power above the wave. 

But they heaved the billow before the prow. 

And they dashed the surge against her side, 
And they struck her keel with jerk and blow, 

Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. 
She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam. 
Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed 

stream. 
And momently across her track 
The quarl up-reared his island back, 
And the fluttering scallop behind would float, 
And spatter the water about the boat ; 
But he bailed her out with his colon-shell, 

And he kept her trimmed with an airy tread. 
While on every side, like lightning, fell 

The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. 

Onward still he held his way, 

Till he came where the column of moonshine 

lay, 
And saw, beneath the surface dim. 
The browned-backed sturgeon slowly swim ; 
Around him were the goblin train ; 
But he sculled with all his might and main. 
And followed wherever the sturgeon led. 
Till he saw him upward point his head ; 
Then he dropped his paddle blade, 
And held his colon-goblet up 
To catch the drop in its crimson cup. 
With sweeping tail and quivering fin, 
Through the wave the sturgeon flew, 
And like the heaven-shot javelin, 

He sprang above the waters blue. 
Instant as the star-fall light 

He plunged him in the deep again. 
But left an arch of silver bright, 

The rainbow of the moony main. 
It was a strange and lovely sight 

To see the puny goblin there ; 
He seemed an angel form of light. 

With azure wings and sunny hair. 

Throned on a cloud of purple fair. 
Circled with blue, and edged with white, 
And sitting, at the fall of even. 
Beneath the bow of summer heaven. 
A moment, and its luster fell ; 

But, ere it met the billow blue. 
He caught within his crimson bell 

A droplet of its sparkling dew. 
Joy to thee. Fay ! thy task is done, 






POEMS OF FANCY. 



631 



Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won ; 
Cheerly ply thy dripping oar, 
And haste away to the elfin shore. 

He turns, and low on either side, 

The ripples on his path divide. 

And the track o'er which his hoat must pass 

Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. 

Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, 

With snowy arms half swelling out. 
While on the glossed and gleamy wave 

Their sea-green ringlets loosely float ; 
They swim around with smile and song. 

They press the hark with pearly hand. 
And gently urge her course along 

Toward the beach of speckled sand ; 

And as he lightly leaped to land, 
They bade adieu with nod and bow, 

Then gaily kissed each little hand. 
And dropped in the crystal deep below. 

A moment stayed the fairy there ; 

He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer, 

Then spread his wings of gilded blue, 

And on to the elfin court he flew ; 

As ever ye saw a bubble rise. 

And shine with a thousand changing dyes, 

Till, lessening far, through ether driven, 

It mingles with the hues of heaven; 

As, at the glimpse of morning pale, 

The lance-fly spreads his silken sail, 

And gleams with blendings soft and bright, 

Til lost in the shades of fading night ; 

So rose from earth the lovely fay, 

So vanished, far in heaven away ! 

Up, Fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower ; 
The cricket has called the second hour; 
Twice again, and the lark will rise 
To kiss the streakings of the skies. 
Up ! thy charmed armor don ! 
Thou'lt need it ere the night be gone. 

He put his acorn helmet on ; 

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down ; 

The corslet-plate that guarded his breast 

AVas once the wild bee's golden vest ; 

His cloak of a thousand mingled dyes 

Was formed of the wings of butterflies ; 

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen, 

Studs of gold on a ground of green ; 

And the quivering lance which he brandished 

bright 
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. 
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed ; 

39 



He bared his blade of the bent grass blue ; 
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed. 

And away like a glance of thought he flew 
To skim the heavens, and follow far 
The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 

The moth-fly, as he shot in air. 
Crept under the leaf, and hid her there ; 
The katydid forgot its lay ; 
The prowling gnat fled fast away ; 
The fell mosquito checked his drone, 
And folded his wings till the fay was gone ; 
And the wily beetle dropped his head, 
And fell on the ground as if he were dead ; 
They crouched them close in the darksome 
shade. 
They quaked all o'er with awe and fear, 
For they had left the blue bent blade. 

And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear; 
Many a time, on a summer's night, 
When the sky was clear and the moon was 

bright. 
They had been roused from the haunted ground 
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound, 
They had heard the tiny bugle-horn. 
They had heard the twang of the maize- 
silk string. 
When the vine-twig boughs were tightly 

drawn. 
And the nettle-shaft through the air was 
borne. 
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's 
wing ; 
And now they deemed the courier ouphe 
Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground ; 
And they watched tiU they saw him mount the 
roof 
That canopies the world around ; 
Then glad they left their covert lair. 
And freaked about in the midnight air. 

Up to the vaulted firmament 

His path the fire-fly courser bent. 

And at every gallop upon the wind, 

He flung a glittering spark behind. 

He flies like a feather in the blast 

Till the first light cloud in heaven is past ; 

But the shapes of air have begun their work, 

And a drizzly mist is round him cast ; 
He cannot see through the mantle murk. 

He shivers with cold, but he urges fast ; 
Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade, 

He lashes his steed and spurs amain, 

For shadowy hands have twitched the rein, 
And flame-shot tongues around him played, 



632 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



And near him many a fiendish eye 
Had glared with a fell malignity, 
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, 
Came screaming on his startled ear. 
His wings are wet about his breast, 
The plume hangs dripping from his crest, 
His eyes are blurred by the lightning's glare, 
And his ears* are stunned with the thunder's 

blare. 
But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew. 
He thrust before and he struck behind. 
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through, 

And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind ; 
Howling, the misty specters flew. 

They rend the air with frightful cries. 
For he has gained the welkin blue. 

And the land of clouds beneath him lies. 

Up to the cope, careering swift, 

In breathless motion fast. 
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift, 

Or the sea-roc rides the blast. 
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, 

The sphered moon is past. 
The earth but seems a tiny blot 

On a sheet of azure cast. 
Oh! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight. 

To tread the starry plain of even. 
To meet the thousand eyes of night. 

And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! 
But the elfin made no stop or stay 
Till he came to the bank of the milky-way ; 
Then he checked his courser's foot, 
And watched for the glimpse of the planet- 
shoot. 

Sudden along the snowy tide 

That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall. 
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide. 

Attired in sunset's crimson pall; 
Around the fay they weave the dance, 

They skip before him on the plain. 
And one has taken his wasp-sting lance. 

And one upholds his bridle-rein ; 
With warblings wild they lead him on 

To where, through clouds of amber seen. 
Studded with stars, resplendent shone 

The palace of the sylphid queen. 
Its spiral columns, gleaming bright. 
Were streamers of the northern light ; 
Its curtains' light and lovely flush 
Was of the morning's rosy blush. 
And the ceiling fair, that rose aboon. 
The white and feathery fleece of noon. 

But oh, how fair the shape that lay 



Beneath a rainbow, bending bright! 
She seemed to the entranced fay 

The loveliest of the forms of light. 
Her mantle was the purple rolled 

At twilight in the west afar; 
'Twas tied with threads of dawning gold. 

And buttoned with a sparkling star. 
Her face was like the lily roon 

That veils the vestal planet's hue ; 
Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon, 

Set floating in the welkin blue. 
Her hair is like the sunny beam. 
And the diamond gems which round it gleam 
Are the pure drops of dewy even 
That ne'er have left their native heaven. 

She raised her eyes to the wandering sprite. 

And they leaped with smiles, for well I ween 
Never before in the bowers of light 

Had the form of an earthly fay been seen. 
Long she looked in his tiny face. 

Long with his butterfly cloak she played, 
She smoothed his wings of azure lace. 

And handled the tassel of his blade ; 
And as he told in accents low 
The story of his love and woe. 
She felt new pains to her bosom rise. 
And the tear-drop started to her eyes. 
And " Oh! sweet spirit of earth, she cried, " 

" Return no more to your woodland height, 
But ever here with me abide 

In the land of everlasting light I 
Within the fleecy drift we'll lie, 

We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim. 
And all the jewels of the sky 

Around thy brow shall brightly beam ; 

And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream 
That rolls its whitening foam aboon. 

And ride upon the lightning's gleam. 
And dance upon the orbed moon ! 
We'll sit within the Pleiad ring. 

We'll rest on Orion's starry belt, 
And I will bid my sylphs to sing 

The song that makes the dew-mist melt ; 
Tiieir harps are of the umber shade 

That hides the blush of waking day. 
And every gleamy string is made 

Of silvery moonshine's lengthened ray ; 
And thou shalt pillow on my breast. 

While heavenly breathings float around, 
And, with the sylphs of ether blest. 

Forget the joys of fairy ground." 

She was lovely and fair to see. 
And the elfin's heart beat fitfully ; 



<i 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



633 



But lovelier still, and still more fair, 

The earthly form imprinted there ; 

Naught he saw in the heavens above 

Was half so dear as his mortal love ; 

For he thought upon her look so meek. 

And he thought of the light flush on her cheek. 

Never again might he bask and lie 

On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye ; 

But in his dreams her form to see. 

To clasp her in his revery. 

To think upon his virgin bride, 

Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. 

" Lady," he cried, " I have sworn to-night, 

On the word of a fairy knight. 

To do my sentence-task aright ; 

My honor scarce is free from stain ; 

I may not soil its snows again ; 

Betide me weal, betide me woe. 

Its mandate must be answered now." 



Her bosom heaved with many a sigh. 
The tear was in her drooping eye ; 
But she led him to the palace-gate, 

And called the sylphs who hovered there 
And bade them fly and bring him straight 

Of clouds condensed a sable car. 
With charm and spell she blessed it there, 
From all the fiends of upper air. 
Then round him cast the shadowy shroud, 
And tied his steed behind the cloud. 
And pressed his hand as she bade him fly 
Far to the verge of the northern sky ; 
For, by its wan and wavering light. 
There was a star would fall to-night. 

Borne afar on the wings of the blast, 
Northward away he speeds him fast, 
And his courser follows the cloudy wain 
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain. 
The clouds roll backward as he flies, 
Each flickering star behind him lies. 
And he has reached the northern plain, 
And backed his flre-fly steed again. 
Ready to follow in its flight 
The streaming of the rocket-light. 
The star is yet in the vault of heaven. 

But it rocks in the summer gale ; 
And now 'tis fitful and uneven, 

And now, 'tis deadly pale ; 
And now 'tis wrapped in sulphur-smoke. 

And quenched is its rayless beam. 
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke 



It bursts in flash and flame. 
As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance 

That the storm-spirit flings from high. 
The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue. 

As it fell from the sheeted sky. 
As swift as the wind in its trail behind. 

The elfin gallops along; 
The fiends of the cloud arc bellowing loud. 

But the sylphid charm is strong ; 
He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, 

While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze ; 
He watches each flake till the sparks expire. 

And rides in the light of its rays. 
But he drove his steed to the lightning's 
speed. 

And caught a glimmering spark ; 
Then wheeled around to the fairy ground. 

And sped through the midnight dark. 

Ouphe and Goblin ! Imp and Sprite ! 

Elf of Eve ! and starry Fay ! 
Ye that love the moon's soft light. 

Hither, hither, wing your way. 
Twine ye in a jocund ring. 

Sing and trip it merrily, 
Hand to hand, and wing to wing, 

Round the wild, witch-hazel tree. 
Hail the wanderer again 

With dance and song, and lute and lyre ,* 
Pure his wing and strong his chain. 

And doubly bright his fairy flre. 
Twine ye in an airy round. 

Brush the dew and print the lea; 
Skip and gambol, hop and bound 

Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 
The beetle guards our holy ground, 

He flies about the haunted place, 
And if mortal there be found. 

He hums in his ears and flaps his face ; 
The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay, 

The owlet's eyes our lanterns be ; 
Thus we sing, and dance and play. 

Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 

But hark ! from tower on tree-top high 

The sentry-elf his call has made ; 
A streak is in the eastern sky. 

Shapes of moonlight ! flit and fade ! 
The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring. 
The sky-lark shakes his dabbled wing. 
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn. 
The cock has crowed, and the fays are gone. 

Joseph Rodman Drake, 



634 



POEMS OF FAN"CY. 



ARIEL'S SOJVG. 

(From "The Tempest," Act I., Scene 2.) 

^OME unto these yellow sands, 
>© And then take hands : 
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd 

(The wild waves whist) 
Foot it featly here and there ; 
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 

Hark, hark ! 



Spirits. Bowgh, wowgh. 
The watch-dogs bark: 
Bowgh, wowgh. 
Ariel. Hark, hark ! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticlere, 
Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

William Shakspere. 




I 






Ferdinand and Ariel. 



TEE PASSIOJfS. 

(An Ode for Music.) 

W'HElSr music, heavenly maid, was young. Thronged around her magic cell, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting. 

The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Possessed beyond the Muses' painting, 



POEMS OF FAIiTCY. 



635 



By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart " 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each (for madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try. 

Amid the chords bewildered laid, 
And baclf recoiled, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 
Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire. 

In lightnings owned his secret stings ; 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures, wan Despair 
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure ? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure. 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance 
hail! 
Still would her touch the sound pro- 
long ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
She called on Echo still, through all the 
song; 
And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft, responsive voice was heard at every 
close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled and waved her 

golden hair. 
And longer had she sung, but with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose ; 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder 
down. 
And with a withering look. 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 
And, ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum, with furious heat ; 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause 
between 
Dejected Pity, at his side. 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mein, 



While each strained ball of sight seemed 
bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers. Jealousy, to naught were fixed ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
Of diftering themes the varying song was 
mixed. 
And now it courted Love, now raving call- 
ed on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired. 

Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 

And, from her wild, sequestered seat. 

In notes by distance made more sweet. 

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive 
soul. 
And dashing soft from rocks around. 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 

Through glades and glooms the mingled meas- 
ure stole. 

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, 
Bound a holy calm diff'using. 
Love of peace, and lonely musing. 

In hollow murmurs died away. 

But Oh! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest 
hue. 
Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thick- 
et rung. 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. 
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chastened 

queen, 
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen. 
Peeping from forth their valleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear. 
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen 
spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial ; 

He with viny crown advancing. 
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed, 

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the 

best. 
They would have thought who heard the 
strain. 
They saw in Terape's vale her native maids. 
Amidst the festal sounding shades. 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing. 
While, as his flying fingers touched the strings. 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic 
round ; 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un- 
bound ; 
And he, amidst his frolic play. 
As if he would the charming air repay, 

Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

O Music, sphere-descended maid. 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid. 
Why, goddess, why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 
As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
You learned an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared. 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart. 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! 
Thy wonders in that godlike age 
Fill thy recording sister's page ; 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale. 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age: 
Even all at once together found, 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 
Oh bid our vain endeavors cease ! 
Revive the just designs of Greece; 
Return in all thy simple state. 
Confirm the tale her sons relate. 

WiLLiAJM Collins. 



THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 

(A Pindaric Ode.) 

gWAKE, ^olian lyre, awake, 
jS And give to rapture all thy trembling 

strings I 
From Helicon's harmonious springs 

A thousand rills their mazy progress take ; 
The laughing flowers, that round them blow. 
Drink life and fragrance as they flow ; 
Now the rich stream of music winds along, 
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, 
Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden 

reign ; 
Now rolling down the steep amain, 
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour! 
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the 



O sovereign of the willing soul, 
Parent of sweet and solemh-breathing airs. 
Enchanting shell I the sullen Cares 

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control; 



On Thracia's hills the Lord of Wat 
Has curbed the fury of his car. 
And dropped his thirsty lance at thy com- 
mand. 
Perching on the sceptered hand 
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king 
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing ; 
Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie 
The terror of his beak, and lightning of his 
eye. 

Thee, the voice, the dance, obey, 

Tempered to thy warbled lay ; 
O'er Idalia's velvet-green. 
The rosy-crowned loves are seen 

On Cytherea's day; 
With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 
Frisking light in frolic measures ; 
Now pursuing, now retreating, 

Now in circling troops they mieet; 
To brisk notes in cadence beating 

Glance their many-twinkling feet. 
Slow melting strains their Queen's approach 

declare ; 
Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay ; 
With arms sublime that float upon the air. 

In gliding state she wins her easy way ; 
O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move 
The bloom of young Desire and purple light 
of Love. 

Man's feeble race what ills await ! 
Labor and penury, the racks of pain. 
Disease and sorrow's weeping train. 

And death, sad refuge from the storms of 
fate! 
The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 
And justify the laws of Jove. 
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? 
Night, and all her sickly dews. 
Her specters wan, and birds of boding cry. 
He gives to range the dreary sky, 
Till down the eastern cliffs afar 
Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering 
shafts of war. 

In climes beyond the solar road. 

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains 

roam. 
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom. 

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. 
And oft, beneath the odorous shade 
Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 
In loose numbers wildly sweet, 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



637 



Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky 

loves. 
Her track, where'er the goddess roves, 
Glory pursue, and generous Shame, 
The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy 

flame. 
Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep, 
Isles that crown the ^gean deep. 
Fields that cool lUissus laves, 
Or where Meander's amber waves 
In lingering labyrinths creep, 
How do your tuneful echoes languish, 
Mute, but to the voice of anguish ! 
Where each old poetic mountain 

Inspiration breathed around ; 
Every shade and hallowed fountain 

Murmured deep a solemn sound ; 
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour. 

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. 
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, 
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost. 
They sought, O Albion, next thy sea-engirdled 
coast. 



Far from the sun and summer gale. 
In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, 
What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 

To him the mighty mother did unveil 
Her awful face ; the dauntless child 
Stretched forth his little arms and smiled. 
" This pencil take," she said, " whose colors 

clear 
Richly paint the vernal year ; 
Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy! 
This can unlock the gates of joy, 
Of horror that, and thrilling fears. 
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic 
tears." 



With necks in thunder clothed, and long re- 
sounding pace. 
Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 
Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er. 
Scatters from her pictured urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that 
burn. 
But, ah, 'tis heard no more ! 
O lyre divine, what daring spirit 
Wakes thee now ? Though he inherit 
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion 
That the Theban Eagle bear. 
Sailing with supreme dominion 

Through the azure deep of air; 
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray 
With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun ; 
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant 
way 
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate. 
Beneath the good how far! but far above the 
great! 

Thomas Gray. 




Thomas Gray. 



Nor second he, that rode sublime 
Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy. 
The secrets of the abyss to spy. 
He passed the flaming bounds of place and 

time; 
The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze. 
Where angels tremble while they gaze. 
He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous 

car, 
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 
Two coursers of ethereal race, 



SOJ^G OF THE FAIRIES. 

§Y the moon w^e sport and play ; 
With the night begins our day ; 
As we dance the dew doth fall ; 
Trip it, little urchins, all. 
Lightly as the little bee. 
Two by two, and three by three. 
And about go we, and about go we. 

John Lyly. 




638 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



ALEXAJfDER'S FEAST; OR, THE 
POWER OF MUSIC. 

(An Ode in Honor of St. Cecilia's Day.) 

^fMWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won 
■jp By Philip's warlike son; 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne ; 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 

bound ; 
(So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave. 

None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus, placed on high 

Amid the tuneful choir, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre ; 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love.) 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 
And while he sought her snowy breast ; 
Then round her slender waist he curled, 
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign 

of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
" A present deity !" they shout around ; 
'• A present deity !" the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

CHORUS. 

With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, 



Affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musi- 
cian sung. 
Of Bacchus ever fair and young. 

The jolly god in triumph comes, 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ! 
Flushed with a purple grace. 
He shows his honest face ; 
Now give the hautboys Ibreath. He 
comes, he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 

Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure. 
E-ich the treasure. 
Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure. 

Kich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; 

And thrice he routed all his foes ; and thrice 

he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And while he heaven and earth defied. 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse 
Soft pity to infuse ; 
He sung Darius, great and good. 
By too severe a fate, 

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 
Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his former bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 
Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below ; 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving in his altered soul 
The various turns of chance below ; 



640 



POEMS OF FA^CY. 




'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son." 



And now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled, to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
For pity melts the soul to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toll and trouble ; 
Honor but an empty bubble ; 

Never ending, still beginning. 
Fighting still, and still destroying. 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh think it worth enjoying! 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the 
cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
"Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and look- 
ed. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 
pressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

CHORUS. 

The prince unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 



Who caused his care, 
And sighed and looked, sighed and 
looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 
pressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

IsTow strike the golden lyre again, 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 
Break his bands of sleep asunder. 
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head, 
As awaked from the dead. 
And amazed, he stares around. 
Kevenge! revenge! Timotheus cries. 
See the Furies arise ! 
See the snakes that they rear. 
How they hiss in their hair! 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were 
slain. 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain. 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high! 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods! 
The princes applaud with a furious joy, 




At last divine Cecilia came, inventress of the vocal frame." 



642 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 
destroy ; 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey, 

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 

CHORUS. 

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 
destroy ; 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey. 

And like another Helen, fired another Troy. 

Thus, long ago. 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft de- 
sire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 
before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 

Or both divide the crown ! 
He raised a mortal to the skies. 
She drew an angel down. 

GRAND CHORUS. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 
before, 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 

Or both divide the crown ! 
He raised a mortal to the skies. 
She drew an angel down. 

John Dryden. 



" Why dost thou steal from me 

Ever as slumber 
Flies, and reality chills me again ?'' 

"Life thou must struggle through : 

Strive, — and in slumber 
Sweetly again I will steal to thy soul." 
James Gates Percival. 




James Gates Percival. 



A visiojy. 

**M^CHENCE dost thou come to me, 

vild/ Sweetest of visions. 
Filling my slumbers with holiest joy?" 

" Kindly I bring to thee 
Feelings of childhood. 
That in thy dreams thou be happy awhile.' 



THU FAIRIES. 

fP the airy mountain, 
Down the rushy glen, 
We daren't go a hunting 
For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together ; 
Green jacket, red cap. 
And white owl's feather! 

Down along the rocky shore 

Some make their home ; 
They live on crispy pancakes 

Of yellow tide-foam ; 
Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain lake. 
With frogs for their watch-dogs, 

All night awake. 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



643 



High on the hill-top 

The old king sits ; 
He is now so old and gray 

He's nigh lost his wits. 
With a bridge of white mist 

Columbkill he crosses, 
On his stately journeys 

From Slievelengue to Rosses ; 
Or going up with music, 

On cold starry nights, 
To sup with the queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 



Deep within the lakes, 
On a bed of flag-leaves, 
Watching till she wakes. 

By the craggy hill-side. 
Through the mosses bare, 

They have planted thorn-trees 
For pleasure here and there ; 

Is any man so daring 
To dig one up in spite, 
He shall find the thornies set 
In his bed at night. 




They stole little Bridget 
For seven years long." 



They stole little Bridget 

For seven years long ; 
When she came down again 

Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back. 

Between the night and morrow ; 
They thought that she was fast asleep 

But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 



Up the airy mountain 

Down the rushy glen. 
We daren't go a hunting. 



644 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 
Trooping all together ; 



Green jacket, red cap, 
And white owl's feather I 

WlLLIAJM AlUNGHAM. 



THE FAIRIES. 



(From "The Plea of the 

fERI and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic, 
Brought Robin Goodfellow, that merry 
swain ; 
And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms ro- 
mantic. 
Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain. 
Fresh dripping from a cloud ; some bloomy 
rain, 
Then circling the bright moon, had washed 
her car, 



Midsummer Fairies.") 

Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth; 

These be the feasters on night's silver cloth ; 
The gnat with shrilly trump is there convener, 

Forth from their flowery chambers, noth- 
ing loth. 
With lulling tunes to charm the air serener, 
Or dance upon the grass to make it greener. 

These be the pretty genii of the flowers, 
Daintily fed with honey and pure dew I 




Oh, these be Fancy's revelers by night! 
Diana's motes that flit in her pale light. 



And still bedewed it with a various stain ; 
Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, 
Who bears all fairy embassies afar. 



Oh, these be I^ancy's revelers by night! 

Stealthy companions of the downy moth, 
Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light. 



Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours, 
King Oberon, and all his merry crew, 
The darling puppets of romance's view; 
Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call 
them. 
Famous for patronage of lovers true ; 
No harm they act, neither shall harm befall 
them, 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



645 



So do not thus with crabbed frowns appall 
them. 

For these are kindly ministers of nature, 

To soothe all covert hurts and dumb dis- 
tress ; 
Pretty they be, and very small of stature. 

For mercy still consorts with littleness; 

Wherefore the sum of good is still the less, 
And mischief greatest in this world of wrong ; 

So do these charitable dwarfs redress 
The tenfold ravages of giants strong. 
To whom great malice and great might belong. 

Thomas Hood. 



A MUSICAL IJYSTBUMEJ^T. 

W'HAT was he doing, the great god Pan, 
Down in the reeds by the river? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a 

goat, 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river ; 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan; 
From the deep cool bed of the river; 
The limpid water turbidly ran. 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 
And the dragon fly had fled away, 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sate the great god Pan, 

While turbidly flowed the river. 
And hacked and hewed as a great god can, 
With his hard, bleak steel at the patient 

reed. 
Till there was i)ot a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan ; 

How tall it stood in the river ! 
Then drew the pith like the heart of a man. 
Steadily from the outside ring. 
Then notched the poor dry empty thing 
In holes as he sate by the river. 

" This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, 

Laughed while he sate by the river, 
" The only way since gods began 

To make sweet music, they could suc- 
ceed." 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the 
reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 



Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan ! 

Piercing sweet by the river! 
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 
The sun on the hills forgot to die. 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 
Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

To laugh, as he sits by the river ; 
Making a poet out of a man ; 

The true gods sigh for the cost and the 

pain, 
For the reed that grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the reeds in the river. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



FROM "THE BLESSED 
DAMOZEL." 

fHE blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of heaven ; 
Her eyes were deeper than the depth 

Of waters stilled at even ; 
She had three lilies in her hand. 
And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe ungirt from clasp to hem, 
Nor wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift 
For service, meetly worn ; 

And her hair hanging down her back, 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

It was the rampart of Grod's house 

That she was standing on, 
By God built over the starry depth. 

The which is space begun, 
So high that looking downward thence, 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in heaven, across the flood 

Of ether' like a bridge. 
Beneath the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Heard hardly some of her new friends 

Amid their loving games, 
Spake evermore among themselves 

Their virginal chaste names : 
And the souls mounting up to God, 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself, and stooped 
Out of the circling charm, 



646 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



^ 



Until her bosom must have made 
The bar she leaned on warm, 

And the lilies lav as if asleep, 
Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of heaven she saw 
Time like a pulse shake fierce 



Through all the worlds. Her gaze still 
strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path, and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



THE FAIRY'S SO^'G. 

(From "A Midsummer Night's Dream.") 



§VER hill, over dale. 
Thorough bush, thorough briar, 
Over park, over pale. 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
I do wander everywhere. 
Swifter than the moon's sphere; 
And I serve the fairy queen. 
To dew her orbs upon the green. 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be: 




mi 




* I do wander everywhere, 
Swifter than the moon's sphere." 

In their gold coat spots you see ; 
Those be rubies, fairy favours. 
In those freckles live their savours: 

I must go seek some dewdrops here. 

And hang a pearl in exeYj cowslip's ear. 

Farewell, thou lob of spirits : I'll be gone ; 

Our queen and all her elves come here anon. 
William Shakspere. 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



647 



THE VISIT OF ST. JflCHOLAS. 

'r^WAS the night before Christmas, when 

'P all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney 
with care, 



Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 

bound ! 
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his 

foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes 

and soot ; 

In hopes"tharst. Nicholas soon would be ^ ^"^^^f ^f ^""H ^^ ^^^^?^^. '''' ^'' ^^^^' . 



And he looked like a peddler just opening his 
pack. 

His eyes how they twinkle ! his dimples, how 

merry ; 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a 

cherry ; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow. 
And the beard on his chin was as white as 

the snow ; 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
And the smoke it encircled his head like a 

wreath. 

He had a broad face and a little round belly, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl fuH 

of jelly. 
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old 

elf. 



there ; 
The children were nestled all snug in their 

beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced through 

their heads ; 

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap. 

Had just settled our brains for a long win- 
ter's nap. 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clat- 
ter, 

I sprang from my bed to see what was the 
matter ; 

Away to the window I flew like a flash. 



The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen 

snow. 
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below ; 
When, what to my wondering eyes should ap- 
pear 
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. 
With a little, old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they 

came, 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them 

by name ; 
- "Now, Dasherl now. Dancer! now, Prancer! 

now, Vixen! 
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blit- 

zen — 
To the top of the porch ! to the top of the 

wall! 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!" 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane 

fly, 

When they meet with an obstacle mount to 

the sky, 
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, 

too ; 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 



And I laughed when I saw him in spite of 

myself ; 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head. 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his 

work. 
And filled all the stockings, then turned with 

a jerk. 
And laying his finger aside of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a 

whrstle, 
And away they all flew like the down of a 

thistle, 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of 

sight, 
" Merry Christmas to all, axd to all a Good 

Night!" 

Clemext C. Moore. 



HYMK TO DIAKA. 

(From "Cynthia's Revels.") 

i^UEEN and huntress, chaste and 
V^ Now the sun is laid to sleep ; 
Seated in thy silver chair. 



.ir, 



State in wonted manner keep. 
As I drew in my head, an^ was turning Hesperus entreats your light, 
around. Goddess excellently bright ! 

40 




Jj^m^fpj/mi^. 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



649 



Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close ; 
Bless us then, with wished sight 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart. 

And thy crystal shining quiver ; 

Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever ; 

Thou that mak'st a day of night, 

Goddess excellently bright! 

Ben Jonson. 



THE EYE OF ST. AGJSTES. 

^T. AGNES' Eve ! Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
58) The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limped trembling through the frozen 
grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold; 
Numb were the beadsman's fingers, while 
he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 

Like pious incense from a censer old. 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a 

death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his 
prayer he saith. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp and rises from his 
knees. 
And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees ; 
The sculptured dead on each side seemed to 
freeze 
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails, 

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. 
He passes by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and 
mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little door. 

And scarce three steps, ere music's golden 
tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 

But no ! already had his death-bell rung ; 

The joys of all his life were said and sung; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; 

Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to 
grieve. 



That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was 
wide, 
From hurry to and fro. Soon up aloft, 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide; 
The level chambers, ready with their pride. 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests; 

The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Stared, w^here upon their heads the cornice 

rests. 
With hair blown back, and wings put cross- 
wise on their breasts. 

At length burst in the argent revelry. 

With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new stufied, in youth, with tri- 
umphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry 
day. 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many a time 
declare. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of de- 
light. 

And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 

As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily-white; 

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 

Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they 
desire. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; 

The music, yearning, like a god in pain. 
She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine. 
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping 

train 
Pass by ; she heeded not at all ; in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired, not cooled by high dis- 
dain ; 
But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest 
of the year. 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and 
short 
The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 



650 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort. 
Save to St. Agnes, and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 
So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She lingered still. Meantime, across the 
moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and 
implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 

But for one moment in these tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen, 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — such 
things have been. 

He ventures in ; let no buzzed whisper tell. 

All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel; 

For him, those chambers held barbarian 
hordes, 

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 

Against his lineage ; not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
vSave one old beldame, weak in body and in 
soul. 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 

To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland ; 

He startled her; but soon she knew his face, 
And grasped his fingers in his palsied hand, 

Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from 
this place. 

They are all here to-night, the whole blood- 
thirsty race ! 

Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hilde- 
brand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and 
land; 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a 

whit 
More tame for his gray hairs. Alas me! flit! 
Flit like a ghost away !" " Ah, gossip dear, 
We're safe enough; here in this armchair 
sit, 



And tell me how — " "Good saints! not here, 

not here ! 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be 

thy bier." 

He followed through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 

And as she muttered, " Well-a — well-a-day!" 
He found him in a little moonlit room. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as the tomb. 

"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 

Which none but secret sisterhood may see. 

When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 
piously.'* 

" St Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve; 

Yet men will murder upon holy days ; 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 

And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, 

To venture so ; it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! St. Agnes' Eve ! 

God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
This very night ; good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile ; I've mickle time to 
grieve ! " 

Feebly she laughed in the languid moon, 

While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth close a wondrous riddle-book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 
told 
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could 
brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments 

cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 

Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot ; then doth he propose 

A stratagem, that makes the beldame start; 

" A cruel man and impious thou art! 
Sweet lady, let her play, and sleep, and dream 

Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go! I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou 
didst seem." 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro ; " O may I ne'er find grace 

When my weak voice shall whisper its last 
prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 



POEMS OF FANCY. 




65] 



"Full on this casement shone the wintrv moon, 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's" fair breast.'* 



Or look with ruffian passion in her face! 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 



Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, though they be more fanged 
than wolves and bears.'* 



652 



rOEMS OF FANCY. 



"Ah I why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard 
thing, 
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll, 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 

evening," 
Were never missed?" Thus plaining, doth 
she bring. 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro, 
So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 
woe. 

Which was to lead him in close secrecy 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 

Him in a closet of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win, perhaps, that night a peerless 
bride. 

While legioned fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 

Never on such a night have lovers met. 

Since Merlin paid the demon all the monstrous 
debt. 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; 

" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 

Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tambour 

frame 

Her own lute thou wilt see; no time to 

spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience ; kneel 
in prayer 
The while ; ah, thou must needs the lady 

wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the 
dead.'' 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 

The lover's endless minutes slowly passed ; 
Tiie dame returned, and whispered in his ear 

To follow her; with aged eyed aghast 

From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 

The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and 
chaste, 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in 
her brain. 

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade. 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 



When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; 
With silver taper's light, and pious care, 

She turned, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 

Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 

She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 
frayed and fled I 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine died ; 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 

I'o spirits of the air, and visions wide ; 

No uttered syllable, or woe betide! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 

Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should 

swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in 
her dell. 

A casement high and triple-arched there was. 

All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 
grass. 
And diamonded with panes of quaint de- 
vice, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes 
As are the tiger-moth's deep damasked wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand herald- 
ries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with the blood 
of queens and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 

breast, 

As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and 

boon; 

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 

pressed, 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint ; 
She seemed a splendid angel, newly dress- 
ed, 
Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint; 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mor- 
tal taint. 

Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; 

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; 



POEMS OF FANCY, 



653 



Half-hidden like a mermaid in sea-weed, 

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is 
fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she 
lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- 
day; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain; 
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims 
pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 
again. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which Avhen he heard that minute did he 
bless. 
And breathed himself; then from the closet 
crept, 
ISToiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
And over the hushed carpet silently stepped. 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where lo! 
how fast she slept. 

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 

Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and half anguished, threw thereon 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet. 

O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 

The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Atfray his ears, though but in dying tone ; 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is 
gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 

In blanched linen, smooth and lavendered. 
While he from forth the closet brought aheap 

Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 
gourd. 

With jellies smoother than the creamy curd. 
And lucid syrups, tinct with cinnamon ; 

Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties every one. 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 



These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 

Of wreathed silver ; sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. 

" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake I 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; 

Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake^ 

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth 
ache !" 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains ; 'twas a midnight charm 

Impossible to melt as iced stream ; 

The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; 

It seemed he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phan- 
tasies. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute ; 

Tumultuous, and in chords that tenderest be, 
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, 

In Provence called "La Belle Dame sans 
Merci ;" 

Close to her ear touching the melody ; 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; 

He ceased, she panted quick, and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone ; 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculp- 
tured stone. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 

ISTow wide awake, the vision of her sleep ; 
There was a painful change, that nigh ex- 
pelled 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep, 
At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
And moan forth witless words with many a 
sigh. 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would 
keep. 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. 
Fearing to speak or move, she looked so 
dreamingiy. 

" Ah, Porphyro !" said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 

Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear, 
How changed thou art! how pallid chill, 
and drear! 

Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 



654 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



Those looks immortal, those complainings 
dear! 
O leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my love, I know not where 



Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 

At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep re- 
pose; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, 

Solution sweet ; meantime the frost-wind 
blows 
Like love's alarum, pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon 
hath set. 

'Tis dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown 
sleet. 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Made- 
line : " 
'Tis dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat. 
" No dream? Alas, alas ! and woe is mine! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 
pine. 
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing, 
A dove forlorn and lost, with sick unpruned 
wing." 

" My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and ver- 
meil-dyed? 

Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 

After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, saved by miracle. 

Though I have found, I will not rob thy 
nest, 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

" Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from fairyland, 

Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed ; 
Arise, arise ; the morning is at hand ; 

The bloated wassailers will never heed ; 

Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, 

Drowned all in Rhenish, and the sleepy 
mead; 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 



For o'er the southern moors I have a home 
for thee." 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 

For there were sleeping dragons all around, 

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears. 

Down the wide stairs a darkling way they 

found ; 
In all the house was heard no human sound ; 
A chain-dropped lamp was flickering by each 
door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk and 
hound, 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty 
floor. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; 

Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. 
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl. 

With a huge empty flagon by his side : 

The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 
his hide. 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; 

By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; 
The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 
groans. 

And they are gone ; ay, ages long ago 

These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the baron dreamt of many a woe, 
And all his warrior guests, with shade and 

form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coflSn-worm, 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsey-twitched, with meager face de- 
form ; 
The beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
For aye unsought-for, slept among his ashes 
cold. 

John Keats. 



THE BELLS. 
I. 

MEAR the sledges with the bells, 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody fore* 
tells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



655 



With a crystalline delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells. 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the 
bells. 



Hear the mellow wedding beUs, 

Golden bells! 
What a world of happiness their harmony fore- 
tells! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten, golden notes, 

All in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 
gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels. 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells. 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 



Hear the loud alarum bells. 

Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror now their turbulency 
tells! 
In the startled ear of night, 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek. 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the 

fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 
frantic fire. 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now, now to sit or never. 
By the side of the palefaced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 



What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 
How they clang and clash and roar J 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging. 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
In the jangling. 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking and the swelling in the anger 
of the bells— 
Of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells. 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells. 



Hear the tolling of the bells. 

Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their mon- 
ody compels ! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 

At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 
And the people — ah the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple. 
All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman, 
They are neither brute nor human — 
They are Ghouls; 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 
Rolls 
A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the pyean of the bells ! 
And he dances and he yells. 
Keeping time, time, time,. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the paean of the bells ; 
Of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 



Go6 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



To the throbbing of tlie bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 
To the sobbing of the bells; 

Keeping time, time, time. 
And he knells, knells, knells, 

In a happy Kunic rhyme. 
To the rolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells. 
To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells. 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



THE B AVE J^. 

§NCE upon a midnight dreary, as I ponder- 
ed, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of 

forgotten lore. 
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly 

there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my 

chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor, I muttered, " tapping at 
my chamber door. 
Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak 

December. 
And each separate, dying ember wrought its 

ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had 

sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow 

for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the 

angels name Lenore, 
Nameless here forevermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each 

purple curtain 
Thrilled me, flUed me with fantastic terrors 

never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, 

I stood repeating : 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my 

chamber door, 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my 

chamber door ; 
This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating 
then no longer, 



" Sir," said I, " Or Madam, truly youriorgive- 

ness I implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently 

you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at 

my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you.'^ Here 1 

opened wide the door ; 
Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into the darkness peering, long 1 stood 
there, wondering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever 
dared to dream before ; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the still- 
ness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the 
whispered word, " Lenore !" 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured 
back the word ' Lenore I" 
Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul 
within me burning; 

Soon again I heard a tapping, something loud- 
er than before. 

" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at 
my window lattice ; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this 
mystery explore ; 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mys- 
tery explore ; 
'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with 
many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saint- 
ly days of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not a min- 
ute stopped or stayed he, 

But, with mein of lord or lady, perched above 
my chamber door — 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my 
chamber door. 
Perched and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy 
into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the coun- 
tenance it wore, 

'•Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
thou," 1 said, " art sure no craven, 

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering 
from the Nightly shore. 



65S 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 
Night's Plutonian shore :" 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear 
discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning, little rele- 
vance bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living 
human being 

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his 
chamber door, 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above 
his chamber door. 
With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid 
bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word 
he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feath- 
er then he fluttered, 

Till I scarcely more than muttered : " Other 
friends have flown before ; 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes 
have flown before." 
Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so apt- 
ly spoken, 

'• Doubtless," said I, *' what it utters is its 
only stock and store 

Caught from some unhappy master whom un- 
merciful disaster 

Followed fast, and followed faster till his songs 
one burden bore ; 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy 
burden bore 
Of 'Never, Nevermore'." 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul in- 
to smiling. 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front 
of bird and bust and door ; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook my- 
self to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous 
bird of yore. 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and 
ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sylla- 
ble expressing 



To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned in- 
to my bosom's core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head 
at ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- 
light gloated o'er. 

But whose velvet, violet lining with the lamp- 
light gloating o'er 
She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 



Then, methought, the air grew denser, per- 
fumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled 
on the tufted floor. 

" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— 
by these angels he hath sent thee 

Respite — respite and Nepenthe from thy mem- 
ories of Lenore ! 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind Nepenthe and forget 
this lost Lenore !" 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! Prophet 
still, if bird or devil ! 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest 
forced thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert 
land enchanted. 

On this home by horror haunted, tell me tru- 
ly I implore. 

Is there, is there balm in Gilead ? Tell me, tell 
me, I implore ! 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! Prophet 
still, if bird or devil ! 

By the Heaven that bends above us, by that 
God we both adore. 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the 
distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the an- 
gels name Lenore, 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the 
angels name Lenore ?" 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 
fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting ; 

"Get thee back into the tempest and the 
Night's Plutonian shore! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie 
thy soul has spoken I 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



Leave my loneliness unbroken ! Quit the bust 

above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take 

thy form from off my door!" 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, 
still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my 
chamber door ; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a de- 
mon's that is dreaming, 

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws 
his shadow on the floor ; 

And my soul from oat that shadow that lies 
floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted— nevermore ! 

Edgar Allan Poe. 




Thomas DeQuincey. 



THE AMCIEJYT MARIJ^ER. 

'HERE are three readers of Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner." The first is gross enough to 
fancy all the imagery of the mariner's visions delivered by the poet, for actual facts of 
experience; which being impossible, the whole pulverizes, for that reader, into a base- 
less fairy tale. 

The second reader is wiser than that; he knows that the imagery is not baseless ; it is the 
imagery of febrile delirium, really seen, but not seen as an external reality. The mariner had 
caught the pestilential fever, which had carried off all his mates ; he only had survived ; the 
delirium had vanished ; but the visions that had haunted the delirium remained. 

" Yes," says the third reader, " they remained ; naturally they did, being scorched by fever 
into his brain ; but how did they happen to remain on his belief as gospel truths ? The de- 
lirium had vanished, except as visionary memorials of a sorrow that was cancelled. Why 
was it that craziness settled upon this mariner's brain, driving him, as if he were a Cain or 
another Wandering Jew, to " pass like night from land to land," and at uncertain intervals, 
wrenching him until he made rehearsal of his errors, even at the hard price of " holding chil- 
dren from their play and old men from the chimney-corner ?" That craziness, as the third 
reader deciphers, rose out of a deeper soil than any bodily affliction. It had its root in pen- 
itential sorrow. Oh, bitter is the sorrow to a conscientious heart when too late it discovers the 
depth of a love that has been trampled under foot ! The mariner had slain the creature that on 
all the earth loved him best. In the darkness of his cruel superstition he had done it, to save 
his human brothers from a fancied inconvenience ; and yet, by that very act of cruelty, he had 
himself called destruction on their heads. The Nemesis that followed punished him through 
them ; him that wronged, through those that wrongfully he sought to benefit. The spirit 
who watches over the sanctities of love is a strong angel, is a jealous angel ; and this angel it 
was 

" That loved the bird, that loved the man 
That shot him with his bow." 

He it was that followed the cruel archer into silent and slumbering seas : 

"Nine fathoms deep he followed him, 

Through the realms of mist and snow." 

This jealous angel it was that pursued the man into noonday darkness, and the visions of 



660 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



dying oceans, into delirium, and finally, when recovered from disease, into an unsettled mind. 

Thomas De Quincey. 



THE RIME OF THE AJsXIEXT 
MARIXER, 

PART I. 

T is an Ancient Mariner, 
And he stoppeth one of three : 
" By thy long gray beard and glittering eye. 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 

" The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide. 

And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 

Mayst hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 

" There was a ship," quoth he. 
"Hold off, imhand me, gray-beard loon I" 

Eftsoons his hand dropped he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still, 

And listens like a three years' child ; 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone. 

He cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man. 

The bright-eyed Mariner : 

" The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared. 

Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the light-house top. 

" The sun came up upon the left. 

Out of the sea came he : 
And he shone bright, and in the right 

Went down into the sea. 

" Higher and higher every day. 

Till over the mast at noon — " 
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall. 

Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 

The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner ; 



" And now the storm-blast came, and he 

Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 

And chased us south along. 

"With sloping masts and dripping prow, — 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe. 
And forward bends his head, — 

The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, 
And southward aye we tied. 

" And there came both mist and snow. 

And it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast high, came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 

"And through the drifts the snowy clifts 

Did send a dismal sheen: 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 

The ice was all between. 



J 



" The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 
It cracked and growled, and roared 
howled. 

Like noises in a swound ! 

" At length did cross an Albatross : 

Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 

We hailed it in God's name. 

"It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
And round and round it flew. 

The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through ! 



" And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 

The Albatross did follow. 
And every day for food or play. 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

"In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. 

Glimmered the white moonshine." 

" God save thee, ancient Mariner! 

From the fiends that plague thee thus! 
Why look'st thou so ?" — " With my crossbow 

I shot the Albatross. 



and 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



661 



PART n. 

" The sun now rose upon the right : 

Out of the sea came lie, 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 

Went down into the sea. 

" And the good south-wind still blew behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play, 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

" And I had done an hellish thing. 

And it would work'em woe: 
For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That had made the breeze to blow. 
' Ah, wretch !' said they, ' the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow !' 

" Nor dim, nor red, like God's own head. 

The glorious sun uprist. 
Then all averr'd I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 
* 'Twas right,' said they, 'such birds to slay 

That bring the fog and mist.' 

" The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 

The furrow follow'd free ; 
VVe were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

" Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea ! 

" All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody Sun at noon. 
Right above the mast did stand, 

No bigger than the Moon. 

"Day after day, day after day. 
We stuck, — nor breath nor motion; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

''Water, water; everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water everywhere. 

Nor any drop to drink. 

" The very deep did rot ! O Christ ! 

That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 

Out of the slimy sea. 

"About, about, in reel and rout. 
The death-fires danced at night ; 



The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 

" And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 

Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

" And every tongue, through utter drought, 

Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 

"Ah, well-a-day! what evil looks 

Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung. 

PART III. 

" There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye; 

A weary time ; a weary time ; 
How glazed each weary eye. 

When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

" At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved, and moved, and took at last 

A certain shape, I wist. 

"A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ; 

And still it neared and neared ; 
As if it dodged a water sprite. 

It plunged, and tacked, and veered. 

"With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
Through utter drought all dumb we stood, 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood. 

And cried, ' A sail ! a saill' 

"With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

Agape they heard me call ; 
Gramercy! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath drew in, 

As they were drinking all. 

" ' See, see,' I cried, ' she tacks no more ! 

Hither to work us weal! 
Without a breeze, without a tide. 

She steadies with upright keel.' 

" The western wave was all aflame. 
The day was well-nigh done ; 



662 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



" Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad, bright sun ; 
When that strange shape drave suddenly 

Betwixt us and the sun. 

*' And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace I) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

*' Alas! thought T, and my heart beat loud, 

How fast she nears and nears! 
Are those her sails that glance in the sun, 

Like restless gossameres?. 

" Are those her ribs through which the sun 

Did peer as through a grate, 
And is that woman all her crew? 
Is that a Death, and are there two? 

Is Death that woman's mate ? 

" Her lips were red, her looks were free. 

Her locks were yellow as gold ; 
Her skin was white as leprosy ; 
The nightmare Life-in-Death v»-as she, 

Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

" The naked hulk alongside came, 
And the twain were casting dice ; 

* The game is done ; I've won I I've won !' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

" The sun's rim dips; the stars rush out, 

At one stride comes the Dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 

Oflf shot the phantom bark. 

" We listened and looked sideways up ! 
Fear at my heart as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
The stars were dim, and thick the night. 
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 
white; 

From the sails the dew did drip, 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

*'One after one, by the star-dogged moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh. 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 

And cursed me with his eye. 

" Four times fifty living men, 

And I heard nor sigh nor groa'n. 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 

They dropped down pne by one, 



" The souls did from their bodies fly. 

They fled to bliss or woe ; 
And every soul, it passed me by. 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow." 

PART IV. 

" I fear thee, ancient mariner, 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 
And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 

" I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand so brown !" 

" Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest, 
This body dropped not down. 

" Alone, alone, all, all alone. 

Alone on a wide, wide sea! 
And never a saint took pity on 

My soul in agony ! 

" The many men so beautiful. 

And they all dead did lie ! 
And a thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on ; and so did I. 

" I looked upon the rotting sea, 

And drew my eyes away ; 
I looked upon the rotting deck. 

And there the dead men lay. 

" I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray, 
But, or ever a prayer had gushed, 

A wicked whisper came and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

"I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 

sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 

" The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 

Xor rot nor wreak did they ; 
The look with which they looked on me 

Had never passed away. 

" An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 
But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye! 
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

^' The moving moon went up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide ; 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



663 



Softly she was going up, 
And a star or two beside. 

" Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

" Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes; 
They moved in tracks of shining white. 
And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 

" Within the shadow of the ship, 

I watched their rich attire, 
Blue, glossy green and velvet black. 
They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden Are. 

"O happy living things! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare ; 

A spring of love gushed from my heart. 
And I blessed them unaware ; 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me. 
And I blessed them unaware. 

" The self-same moment I could pray ; 

And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea. 



" Oh, sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given : 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 

That slid into my soul ! 

" The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 
I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 

" My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 

My garments all were dank ; 
Sure 1 had drunken in my dreams, 

And still my body drank. 

"I moved, and could not feel my limbs ; 

I was so light ; almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 

And was a blessed ghost. 

" And soon I heard a roaring wind ; 
It did not come anear, 
41 



But with its sound it shook the sails. 
That were so thin and sere. 

" The upper air burst into life : 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about. 
And to and fro, and in and out. 

The wan stars danced between. 

" And the coming wind did roar more loud. 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 

And the rain poured down from one black 
cloud ; 
The moon was at its edge. 

" The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 

The moon was at its side ; 
Like waters shot from some high crag. 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 

" The loud wind never reached the ship, 

Yet now the ship moved on ! 
Beneath the lightning and the moon. 

The dead men gave a groan. 

" They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
N^or spake, nor moved their eyes; 

It had been strange, even in a dream. 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

" The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 

Yet never a breeze upblew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 

Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools ; 

We were a ghastly crew ! 

" The body of my brother's son 

Stood by me, knee to knee ; 
The body and I pulled at one rope. 

But he said naught to me." 

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner !" 
"Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain 

Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest ! 

"For when it dawned, they dropped their arms, 

And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 

And from their bodies passed. 

"Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the sun ; 



664 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 



" Sometimes a-drooping from the sky, 

I heard the skylark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, — 
How they seemed to fill the skyand air 

With their sweet j argoning ! 

" And now 'twas like all instruments, 

Xow like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

*• It ceased, yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

*' Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe ; 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

" Under the keel nine fathoms deep, 
From the land of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid ; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left ofl* their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

" The sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean ; 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 

With a short, uneasy motion, 
Backwards and forwards half her length. 

With a short, uneasy motion. 

" Then like a pawing horse let go. 

She made a sudden bound ; 
It flung the blood into my head. 

And I fell down in a swound. 

" How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard, and in my soul discerned. 

Two voices in the air : 

" ' Is it he ?' quoth one, ' Is this the man ? 

By Him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 

The harmless Albatross, 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



" ' The spirit who bideth by himself. 

In the land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 

Who shot him with his bow.' 

" The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew ; 
Quoth he: ' This man hath penance done. 

And penance more will do.' 

PART VI. 

First Voice. 

" ' But tell me, tell me, speak again. 

Thy soft response renewing : 
What makes the ship drive on so fast? 

What is the ocean doing ?' 

Second Voice. 

" ' Still as a slave before his lord. 

The ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 

Up to the moon is cast, — 

" ' If he may know which way to go. 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 

See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him !' 

First Voice. 

" ' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind?' 

Second Voice. 

" ' The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 

" ' Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high! 

Or we shall be belated ; 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 

When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 

''I woke, and we were sailing on. 

As in a gentle weather ; 
'Twas night, calm night ; the moon was high; 

The dead men stood together. 

"All stood together on the deck. 

For a charnel-dungeon fitter; 
All fixed on me their stony eyes. 

That in the moon did glitter. 

" The pang, the curse with which they died, 

Had never passed away ; 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 



1 



b 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



665 



" And now this spell was snapped ; once more 

I viewed the ocean green, 
And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen. 

"Like one, that on a lonesome road " 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 
And having once turned round walks on. 

And turns no more his head, 
'Because he knows a frightful fiend 

Doth close behind him tread. 

" But soon there breathed a wind on me, 

Nor sound nor motion made ; 
Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 

"It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek. 

Like a meadow-gale of spring ; 
It mingled strangely with my fears. 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

" Swiftly, swiftly sailed the ship, 

Yet she sailed softly too ; 
Sweetly, sweetly, blew the breeze, 

On me alone she blew. 

" Oh, dream of joy ! is this indeed 

The light-house top I see ? 
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 

Is this my own countree ? 

" We drifted o'er the harbor bar, 

And I with sobs did pray , 
Oh, let me be awake, my God! 

Or let me sleep alway ! 

" The harbor bay was clear as glass, 

So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay. 

And the shadow of the moon. 

" The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. 

That shines above the rock ; 
The moonlight steeped in silentness. 

The steady weather-cock. 

" And the bay was white with silent light. 

Till, rising from the same, 
Full many shapes that shadows were 

In crimson colors came. 

" A little distance from the prow 

Those crimson shadows were ; 
I turned my eyes upon the deck— 

Christ ! what saw I there 1 



" Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. 

And, by the holy rood! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 

On every corse there stood. 

" This seraph band, each waved his hand ; 

It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land. 

Each one a lovely light. 

" This seraph band, each waved his hand, 

No voice did they impart ; 
No voice, but oh ! the silence sank 

Like music in my heart ! 

"But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

I heard the pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turned perforce away, 

And I saw a boat appear. 

" The pilot and the pilot's boy, 

I heard them coming fast. 
Dear Lord in heaven ! it was a joy 

The dead men could not blast. 

"I saw a third, I heard his voice. 

It is the Hermit good ! 
He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 
He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



" The Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 

He loves to talk Avith marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

" He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve, — 

He hath a cushion plump ; 
It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

" The skiff-boat neared, — I heard them talk 

' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and fair. 



" ' Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said, 
' And they answer not our cheer! 

The planks look warped ; and see those 
sails. 
How thin they are and sere ! 

I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 



666 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



" ' Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along, 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 

That eats the she-wolfs young.' 

" ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look,' 

The pilot made reply ; 
' I am afeared.' ' Push on, push on !' 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

" The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 

And straight a sound was heard. 

" Under the water it rumbled on, 

Still louder and more dread ; 
It reached the ship, it split the bay. 

The ship went down like lead. 

" Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. 

Which sky and ocean smote. 
Like one that hath seven days been 
drowned. 

My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 

" Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round ; 

And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

" I moved my lips : the pilot shrieked, 

And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes. 

And prayed where he did sit. 

" I took the oars ; the pilot's boy. 

Who now doth crazy go. 
Laughed loud and long, and all the while. 

His eyes went to and fro. 
' Ha! ha!' quoth he, ' full plain I see 

The Devil knows how to row.' 

" And now, all in my own countrce, 

I stood on the firm land ! 
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 

And scarcely he could stand. 

" ' Oh, shrive me, shrive me, holy man !' 

The Hermit crossed his brow. 
' Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say 

What manner of man art thou ?' 



" Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woeful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale, 

And then it left me free. 

" Since then, at an uncertain hour, 

The agony returns, 
And till my ghastly tale is told. 

This heart within me burns. 

" I pass, like night, from land to land ; 

I have strange powers of speech ; 
The moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me ; 

To him my tale I teach." 

" What loud uproar bursts from that door ; 

The wedding guests are there ; 
But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark! the little vesper-bell. 

Which biddeth me to prayer !" 

" O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 

Alone on a wide, wide sea, — 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 

Scarce seemed'there to be. 

" Oh, sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

'Tis sweeter far to me 
To walk together to the kirk, 

With a goodly company ! 

" To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pray, 
While each to his great Father bends. 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

" Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
He prayeth well who loveth well 

Both man and bird and beast. 

" He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 

For the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright. 

Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone ; and now the Wedding-Guest 

Turned from the bridegroom's door. 



rOEMS OF FANCY. 



667 



He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn ; 



A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 




SOJYG. 

(Prom ''The Tempest," ActV., Scene 1.) 

KIEL. Where the bee sucks, there suck I; 
In a cowslip's bell I lie : 
There I couch when owls do cry. 

On the bat's back I do fly 
After summer, merrily : 
Merrily, merrily, shall I live 
now. 
Under the blossom 
that hangs on 
the bough. 

^ ^rt William Shakspere. 



"On the bat's back I do fl}'- after summer, merrily.' 

o 

THE HORRORS OF FORE-KJs^OWLEDGE. 
F life could throw open its long suites of chambers to our eyes from some station before- 
}' hand ; if, from some secret stand, we could look by anticipation along its vast corridors, 
and aside into the recesses opening upon them from either hand ; halls of tragedy or 
chambers of retribution, simply in that small wing, and no more, of the great caravan- 
serai which we ourselves shall haunt ; simply in that narrow tract of time, and no more, 
where we ourselves shall range ; and confining our gaze to those, and no others, forwhom 
personally we shall be interested ; what a recoil we suffer of horror in our estimate of life I 
What if those sudden catastrophes, or those inexpiable afflictions, which have already de- 
scended upon the people within my own knowledge, and almost below my own eyes, all of 
them now gone past, and some long past, had been thrown open before me as a secret ex- 
hibition when first I and they stood within the vestibule of morning hopes, when the calami- 
ties themselves had hardly begun to gather in their elements of possibility, and when some of 
the parties to them were as yet no more than infants ! Thom^^s De Quincey. 



668 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



TAM aSHAJ^TEB. 

A TALE. 

" Of Brownj'is and of Bogilis full is this buke." 
Gawin Douglass. 

Zr-BCHEN" chapman billies leave the street, 
\XJ And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An,' folk begin to tak the gate; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy. 
An' getting fou and unco happy. 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame. 
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn O'Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter — 
Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses 
For honest men, and bonnie lasses. 
O Tarn I hadst thou but been sae wise 
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum, 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou wast nae sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee got roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied, that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, 
Or catched wi' warlocks i' the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how many counsels sweet. 
How many lengthened, sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale ! Ae market-night, 
Tam had got planted unco right. 
Fast by an ingle, blazing finely. 
With reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And, at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither: 
They had been fou for weeks thegither! 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; 
And ay the ale was growing better; 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 



Wi' favors secret, sweet and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories. 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy! 
As bees fly hame wi' lades of treasure. 
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 

You seize the tlower, its bloom is shed ; 

Or like the snow falls in the river, 

A moment white, then melts forever ; 

Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form, 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time nor tide ; 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane. 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 

And sic a night he taks the road in, 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twould blawn its last ; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowed ; 
That night, a child might understand, 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
(A better never lifted leg.) 
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, 
Despising wind and rain and lire ; 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet, 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scot's sonnet, 
>\Tiiles glowering round wi' prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares; 
Kirk Alio way was drawing nigh, 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 
By this time he was cross the ford. 
Where i' the snaw the chapman smoored ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And through the whins, and by the cairn 
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
Where Mungo's mither hanged herself. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars through the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 



POEMS OF FANCY. 



669 



Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering through the groaning trees, 
Kirk Alloway seemed in a bleeze ; 
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 

Wi' tippenny, we'll fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquebaugh, we'll face the Devil! 

The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle ; 

But Maggie stood right sair astonished. 

Till, by the hand and heel admonished. 

She ventured forward on the light ; 

And, wow I Tarn saw an unco sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 

Put life and mettle in their heels. 

At winnock-bunker, in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape of beast, 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large ; 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 

Coffins stood round, like open presses, 

That shawed the dead in their last dresses. 

And by some devilish cantrip slight. 

Each in its cauld hand held a light, 

By which heroic Tam w^as able 

To note, upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 

Twa span-lang, w^ee, unchristened bairns ; 

A thief, new-cutted frae the rape 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 

Five scimitars, w^i' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 

The knife, a father's throat had mangled. 

Whom his ain son of life bereft, 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 

Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew. 
The dancers quick and quicker flew. 
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they 

cleekit. 
Till ilka carlin swat and reeklt. 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linket at it in her sark ! 



Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white, seventeen hunder linen, 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles. 
For ane blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But withered beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
I w^ander didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawly ; 

" There was ane winsome wench and walie," 

That night enlisted in the core ; 

Lang after kenned on Carrick shore ; 

For mony a beast to dead she shot. 

And perished mony a bonnie boat, 

And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 

And kept the country-side in fear. 

Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn. 

That, while a lassie, she had worn. 

In longitude though sorely scanty. 

It was her best, and she was vaunty. 

Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannie. 

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie 

Wi' twa pun Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) 

Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how^ Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched. 
And thought his very e'en enriched ; 
Even Satan glowered, and fidge'd fu' fain, 
And botched and blew wi' might and main ; 
Till first ane caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark!" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 

When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

When plundering herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussy's mortal foes. 

When pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market crowd, 

When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 



670 



POEMS OF FANCY 



Ah, Tarn! ah, Tarn! thoull get thy fairin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! 
Kate soon wi' be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane o' the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tale may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make. 
The fient a tale she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 



But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae sprang brought oft' her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail ! 
The carlin caught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale of truth shall read. 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear ; 
Kemember Tarn O'Shanter's mare. 

Robert Burns. 








i^stai 



m 



w'^t. 



W^L 't: 



•^.1. 4r ' 'M 



:1, 




" The army surgeons made him limbs." 

pOEM^ OF ^IT AND JfuMOI^, 



FAITHLESS JfELLY GRAY. 

BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold, 
And used to war's alarms ; 
But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 
So he laid down his arms. 

Now as they bore him off the field, 

Said he, " Let others shoot. 
For here I leave my second leg. 

And the Forty-second Foot." 

The army surgeons made him limbs: 
Said he, "They're only pegs; 

But there's as wooden members quite 
As represent my legs." 

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, 

Her name was Nelly Gray ; 
So he went to pay her his devours, 

When he'd devoured his pay. 

But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
She made him quite a scoff; 



And when she saw his wooden legs. 
Began to take them off. 

« O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! 

Is this your love so warm ? 
The love that loves a scarlet coat 

Should be more uniform." 

Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
For he was blithe and brave ; 

But I will never have a man 
With both legs in the grave. 

" Before you had those timber toes 

Your love I did allow. 
But then, you know, you stand upon 

Another footing now." 

" O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! 

For all your jeering speeches. 
At duty's call I left my legs 

In Badajo's breaches." 



674 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



"Why, then,'' said she, "you've lost the feet 

Of legs in war's alarms. 
And now you cannot wear your shoes 

Upon your feats of arms." 

"O false and fickle Nelly Gray! 

I know why you refuse — 
Though I've no feet, some other man 

Is standing in my shoes. 

" I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 

But, now, a long farewell! 
For you will be my death ; alas! 

You will not be my Nell." 



One end he tied around a beam, 

And then removed his pegs, 
And, as his legs were off, of course 

He soon was off his legs. 

And there he hung till he was dead 

As any nail in town ; 
For though despair had cut him up, 

It could not cut him down. 

A dozen men sat on his corpse, 

To find out why he died ; 
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads. 

With a stake in his inside. 

Thomas Hood. 



.. .^riwv)rff-hx:^ii->^K^!^^^^,.^ 




'And when she saw his wooden legs, 
Began to take them off." 



Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, 

His heart so heavy got, 
And life was such a burthen grown, 

It made him take a knot. 

So round his melancholy neck 

A rope he did entwine. 
And, for the second time in life, 

Enlisted in the Line ! 



ROBIX HOOD AJ\'B THE 
CURTAIL FRIAR. 

(The word Curtail is a corruption of Cordelier, a term 
applied to the Franciscans, from the rope which they 
wore about the waist.) 

^N summer time, when leaves grow green, 

And flowers are fresh- and gay, 
Robin Hood and his merry men 
Were disposed to play. 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



675 



Then some would leap, and some would run 
And some would use artillery; 

" Which of you can a good bow draw, 
A good archer to be ? 

" Which of you can kill a buck. 

Or who can kill a doe, 
Or who can kill a hart of Greece 

Five hundred foot him fro ?" 

Will Scadlocke he did kill a buck, 

And Midge he killed a doe. 
And Little John killed a hart of Greece 

Five hundred foot him fro. 

" God's blessing on thy heart," said Eobin 
Hood, 

" That shot such a shot for me. 
I would ride my horse a hundred miles 

To find one could match thee." 

This caused Will Scadlocke to laugh ; 

He laughed full heartily : 
** There lives a friar in Fountaines Abbey 

Will beat both him and thee, 

** The Curtail Friar in Fountaines Abbey 

Can well a strong-bow draw ; 
He will beat you and your yeomen 

Set them all on a row." 

Robin Hood took a solemn oath. 

It was by Mary free. 
That he would neither eat nor drink, 

Till the friar he did see. 

Robin Hood put on his harness good. 
And on his head a cap of steel, 

Broadsword and buckler by his side. 
And they became him weel. 

He took his bow into his hand — 
It was made of a trusty tree — 

With a sheaf of arrows at his back. 
And to Fountain Dale went he. 



Robin Hood lighted off his horse, 

And tied him to a thorn ; 
" Carry me over the water, thou Curtail 
Friar, 

Or else thy life's forlorn." 

The friar took Robin Hood on his back. 

Deep water he did bestride. 
And spake neither good word nor bad 

Till he came at the other side. 



Lightly leaped Robin off the friar's back ; 

The friar said to him again : 
" Carry me over this water, thou fine fellow, 

Or it shall breed thee pain." 

Robin Hood took the friar on his back ; 

Deep water he did bestride, 
And spake neither good word nor bad 

Till he came at the other side. 

Lightly leaped the friar off Robin Hood's 
back. 
Robin Hood said to him again ; 
" Carry me over this water, thou Curtail 
Friar, 
Or it shall breed thee pain." 

The friar took Robin on's back again, 

And stepped in to the knee ; 
Till he came at the middle stream, 

Neither good nor bad spoke he ; 

And coming to the middle stream; 

There he threw Robin in : 
" Now choose thee, choose thee, thou fine 
fellow. 

Whether thou wilt sink or SAvim." 

Robin Hood swam to a bush of broom. 

The friar to a wigger wand ; 
Bold Robin Hood is gone to shore. 

And took his bow in his hand. 



And coming unto Fountain Dale, 

No further would he ride ; 
There was he ware of the Curtail Friar, 

Walking by the water-side. 



One of his best arrows under his belt 

To the friar he let fly; 
The Curtail Friar with his steel buckler 

Did put that arrow by. 



The friar had on a harness good. 
And on his head a cap of steel ; 

Broadsword and buckler by his side, 
And they became him weel. 



" Shoot on, shoot on, thou fine fellow, 
Shoot as thou hast began ; 

If thou shoot here a summer's day. 
Thy mark I will not shun." 



676 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



Robin Hood shot passing well, 
Till his arrows all were gane ; 

They took their swords and steel bucklers, 
They fought with might and main. 

From ten o' th' clock that very day 

Till four i' th' afternoon. 
Then Robin Hood came to his knees 



" A boon, a boon, thou Curtail Friar ; 

1 beg it on my knee : 
Give me leave to set my horn to ray mouth, 

And to blow blasts three." 

" That will I do," said the Curtail Friar ; 

" Of thy blasts I have no doubt. 
I hope thou'lt blow so passing well, 

Till both thy eyes fall out." 

Robin Hood set his horn to his mouth. 

He blew out blasts three. 
Half a hundred yeomen, with bows bent. 

Came raking o'er the lea. 

"Whose men are these?" said the friar; 

" They come so hastily." 
" Those are mine," said Robin Hood ; 

"Friar, what is that to thee?" 

"A boon, a boon," said the Curtail Friar, 

" The like I gave to thee ; 
Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth. 

And to whute whutes three." 

" That will I do," said Robin Hood, 

"' Or else I were to blame ; 
Three whutes in a friar's fist 

AVould make me glad and fain." 

The friar set his fist to his mouth, 

And whuted whutes three ; 
Half a hundred good ban dogs 

Came running o'er the lea. 

" Here is for every man a dog. 

And 1 myself for thee." 
" Nay, by my faith," said Robin Hood, 

" Friar, that may not be." 



Two dogs at once to Robin Hood did go. 
The one behind, the other before ; 

Robin Hood's mantle of Lincoln green 
Off from his back they tore. 

And whether his men shot east or west. 

Or they shot north or south. 
The curtail dogs, so they were taught, 

miey caught th' arrows in their mouth. 

" Take up thy dogs," said Little John ; 

" Friar, at my bidding be." 
" Whose man art thou," said the Curtail 
Friar ; 

" Comest here to prate with me ?" 

'• I am Little John, Robin Hood's man ; 

Friar, I will not lie ; 
If thou take not up thy dogs soon, 

I'll take up them and thee." 

Little John had a bow in his hand, 

He shot with might and main; 
Soon half a score of the friar's dogs 

Lay dead upon the plain. 

Hold thy hand, good fellow," said the Cur- 
tall Friar, 

" Thy master and I will agree ; 
And we Avill have new orders taken 

With all haste that may be." 

" If thou wilt forsake fair Fountain's Dale, 

And Fountain's Abbey free. 
Every Sunday throughout the year, 

A noble shall be thy fee : 

" And every holiday throughout the year, 

Changed shall thy garment be. 
If thou wilt go to fair Nottingham, 

And there remain with me." 

This Curtail Friar had kept Fountain Dale 

Seven long years and more. 
There was neither knight, lord, nor earl, 

Could make him yield before. 

Anonymous. 



1 



10 



WIT THE FLAVOUB OF THE MLYD. 
HEN wit is combined with sense and information; when it is softened by benevo- 
lence and restrained by principle ; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and 
despise it — who can be witty and something more than witty — who loves honour, just- 
ice, decency, good-nature, morality, and religion ten thousand times better than wit — 



POEMS OF WIT AKD HXTMOR. 



677 



wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature. Genuine and innocent wit like this 
is surely the flavour of the mind. Man could direct his ways by plain reason, and support 
his life by tasteless food : but God has given us wit, and flavour, and brightness, and laughter, 
and perfumes, to enliven the days of man's pilgrimage, and to charm his pained steps over 
the burning marl. Sydney Smith. 

■ 

Thou cherub, but of earth ! 
Fit playfellow for fays, by moonlight pale, 

In harmless sport and mirth, 
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail !) 
Thou human humming-bee, extracting hon- 
ey 
From every blossom in the world that blows, 

Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
(Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) 

Thy father's pride and hope I 
(He'U break the mirror with that skipping 

rope !) 
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's 

mint, 
(Where did he learn that squint ?) 

Thou young domestic dove ! 
(He'll have that jug off" with another shove !) 

Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest! 

(Are these torn clothes his best ?) 

Little epitome of man ! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning 
life— 

(He's got a knife !) 

Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky fore- 
seeing, 

Play on, play on, 

My elfin John ! 
Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick.) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistledown, 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk. 

With many a lamb-like frisk, 
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) 
Balmy and breathing music like the South, 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, 
(I wish that window had an iron bar !) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove — 

(I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unless he's sent above.) 

Thomas Hood. 




Sydney Smith. 



A PABEJfTAL ODE TO MY SOJT. 

(Aged Three Years and Five Months.) 

fHOU happy, happy elf! 
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear !) 
Thou tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) 
Thou merry, laughing sprite. 
With spirits feather-light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin — 
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) 

Thou little tricksy Puck, 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
Light as the singing bird that wings the air, 
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the 
stair) 

Thou darling of the sire! 
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
In love's dear chain so bright and strong a 

link, 
Thou idol of thy parents— (Drat the boy! 

There goes my ink I) 



678 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



GEXEALOGY OF HUMOUR. 
T is indeed much easier to describe what is not humour, than what is ; and very difficult 
to define it otherwise than as Cowley has done wit, by negatives. Were I to give my 
own notions of it, 1 would deliver them after Plato's manner, in a kind of allegory, and 
by supposing Humour to be a person, deduce to him all his qualifications, according to 
the following genealogy : Truth was the founder of the family, and the father of Good Sense. 
Good Sense was the father of Wit, who married a lady of collateral line called Mirth, by 
whom he has issue. Humour. Humour therefore, being the youngest of the illustrious family, 
and descended from parents of such different dispositions, is very various and unequal in his 
temper ; sometimes you see him putting on grave looks, and a solemn habit; sometimes airy 
in his behaviour and fantastic in his dress; insomuch, that at difierent times he appears as 
serious as a judge and as jocular as a Merry Andrew. But as he has a great deal of the 
mother in his constitution, whatever mood he is in, he never fails to make his company laugh. 

Joseph Addison. 




A J^ECESSITY. 



(From "Lucile.") 

i@x?/ h: may live without poetry, music and 



art ; 
We may live without conscience, and live 

without heart ; 
We may live without friends ; we may live 

without books ; 
But civilized man cannot live without cooks. 
He may live without books, — what is knowl- 
edge but grieving ? 
He may live without hope, — what is hope but 

deceiving? 
He may live without love, — what is passion 

but pining? 
But where is the man that can live without 

dining ? 

Edward Eobert, Earl Lytton. 

("Owen Meredith. "j 



MY DAUGHTER. 

fHERE came to port, last Monday 
night. 
The queerest little craft. 
Without an inch of rigging on ; 
I looked, and looked, and laughed. 

It seemed so curious that she 
Should cross the unknown water, 

And moor herself right in my room— 
My daughter, oh, my daughter! 

She has no manifest but this, 
No flag floats o'er the water; 




George W. Cable. 

She's too new for the British Lloyds— 
My daughter, oh, my daughter! 

Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones, too! 

Ring out the lovers' moon! 
Ring in the little worsted socks I 

Ring in the bib and spoon ! 

Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse! 

Ring in the milk and water ! 
Away with paper, pen and ink ! 

My daughter, oh, my daughter! 

George W. Cable. 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



679 



THE LAND OF TEUS-AJVD-SO. 

''WrOW would Willie like to go 

Bl To the land of Thus-and-So ? 
Everything is proper there ; 
All the children comb their hair 
Smoother than the fur of cats, 
Or the nap of high silk hats ; 
Every face is clean and white 
As a lily washed in light ; 
Never vaguest soil or speck 
Found on forehead, throat or neck ; 
Every little crimpled ear, 
In and out as pure and clear 
As the cherry blossom's glow 
In the land of Thus-and-So. 

" Little boys that never fall 
Down the stairs, or cry at all ; 
Doing nothing to repent, 
Watchful and obedient ; 
Never hungry, nor in haste, 
Tidy shoe-strings always laced; 
Never button rudely torn 
From its fellows all unworn ; 
Knickerbockers always new, 
Ribbon tie, and collar too ; 
Little watches, worn like men, 
Only always half-past ten ; 
Just precisely right you know, 
For the land of Thus-and-So. 

And the little babies there 
Give no one the slightest care ; 
Nurse has not a thing to do 
But be happy and say ' Boo!' 
Whiie mamma just nods, and knows 
Nothing but to doze and doze ; 
Never litter round the grate ; 
Never lunch or dinner late ; 
Never any household din 
Peals without or rings within. 
Baby coos nor laughing calls, 
On the stairs, or through the halls ; 
Just great Hushes to and fro 
Pace the land of Thus-and-So ! 

" O the land of Thus and So ! 
Isn't it delightful, though ?" 
"Yes," lisped Willie, answering me, 
Somewhat slow and doubtfully ; 
" Must be awful nice, but I 
Would rather wait till by and by 
Before I go there ; may be when 
I be dead I'll go there then ; 



But " the troubled little face 

Closer pressed in my embrace : 

" Les don't never ever go 

To the land of Thus-and-So !'» 

James Whitcomb Riley. 



THE FAULT OF THE PUPPY. 

Iff ORD ERSKINE, at woman presuming to 

ri>C rail, 

Calls a wife a tin canister tied to one's tail; 

And the fair Lady Anne, while the subject he 
carries on, 

Seems hurt at his lordship's degrading com- 
parison. 

But wherefore degrading? Considered aright, 
A canister's polished and useful and bright ; 
And should dirt its original purity hide, 
That's the fault of the puppy to which it is 
tied. 

Matthew (" Moistk") Lewis. 



PRISTIJ^E PROVERBS PRE- 
PARED FOR PRECOCIOUS 
PUPILS. 

§BSERYE you plumed biped fine ; 
To affect his captivation, 
Deposit particles saline 
Upon bis termination. 

Cryptogamous concreation never grows 
On mineral fragments that decline repose. 

Whilst self-inspection it neglects, 
Nor its own foul condition sees, 

The kettle to the pot objects 
Its sordid superficies. 

Decortications of the golden grain 
Are set to allure the aged fowl, in vain. 

Teach not a parent's mother to extract 
The embryo juices of an egg by suction ; 

That good old lady can the feat enact 
Quite irrespective of your kind instructior. 

Pecuniary agencies have force 

To stimulate to speed the female horse. 

The earliest winged songster soonest sees. 
And first appropriates the annelides. 

With soap, and brush, and flannel, you tickle 
In vain the Ethiopic cuticle. 



1)80 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



Bear not to yon famed city upon Tyne 
The carbonaceous product of the mine. 

The mendicant once from his indigence freed, 
And mounted aloft on the generous steed, 



Down the precipice soon will infallibly go. 
And conclude his career in the regions below. 

It is permitted to the feline race 
To contemplate even a regal face. 

Anonymous. 










MORKma MEDITATIOJfS, 

Vp ET Taylor preach upon on a morning 

ML breezy, 

How well to rise while nights and larks are 
flying ; 
For my part, getting up seems not so easy 
By half, as lying. 

What if the lark does carol in the sky. 

Soaring beyond the sight to find him out ? 
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly ? 
I'm not a trout. 

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums. 
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning's 
prime ; 
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes 
A bed of time. 

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are naught, 

His steeds that paw impatiently about ; 
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought. 
The first turn-out. 

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear. 
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl ; 
What then, if I prefer my pillow-beer 
To early pearl ? 

My stomach is not ruled by other men's. 
And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs 



Wherefore should master rise before the hens 
Have laid their eggs ? 

Why from a comfortable pillow start 

To see faint flushes in the east awaken? 
A fig, say I, for any streaky part, 
Excepting bacon. 

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn. 

Who used to haste the dewy grass among, 
" To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ;" 
Well, he died young. 

With charwomen such early hours agree. 
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and 
sup; 
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be 
All up, all up. 

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring 

Till something nearer to the stroke of noon ; 
A man that's fond precociously of stirring 
Must be a spoon. 

Thomas Hood. 



LIJVES. 

(Improvised at the instance of his friend, Stuart New- 
ton, to accompany his picture of an old philosopher rea<l- 
ing from a folio to a young beauty asleep on a chair op- 
posite.) 



MROSTIE 



age, 
learning I 



frostie age! vain ail thy 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



681 



Drowsie page, drowsie page evermore turn- 
ing. 
Young head no lore will heed, 

Young heart's a reckless rover ; 
"Y oung beauty, while you read. 
Sleeping, dreams of absent lover. " 

Washington Irving. 



LIjYES. 

(Improvised when two ladies, with whom he had been 
walking in the garden, forced him from their presence to 
attend to a visitor of importance. One of the ladies after- 
ward became his wife.) 

fliUS Adam looked, when from the gar- 
den driven. 
And thus disputed orders sent from heaven. 
Like him, I go, but yet to go I'm loath ; 
Like him, I go, for angels drove us both. 
Hard was his fate, but mine still more unkind: 
His Eve went with him, but mine stays be- 
hind! 

Edwaed Young. 




Edward Young. 



BELIJ^Doi. 

(From "The Rape of the Lock,") 

OT with more glories, in the ethereal 
plain, 

The sun first rises o^gr the purpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 



Launched on 
Thames. 



the bosom of the silvered 



42 



Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around 

her shone. 
But every eye was fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she 

wore. 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ; 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 
And like the sun they shine on all alike. 
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride. 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to 

hide; 
If to her share some female errors fall. 
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. 
This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung be- 
hind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets, the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With airy springes we the birds betray ; 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey; 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, 
And Beauty draws us with a single hair. 

Alexandek Pope. 



BELIJ^DA'S TOILET. 

(From "The Rape of the Lock.") 

■grND now, unveiled, the toilet stands dis- 
^JWi played. 

Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First robed in white, the nymph intent adores 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears. 
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears. 
The inferior priestess, at her altar's side 
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various offerings of the world appear ; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
And decks the goddess in the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box ; 
The tortoise here and elephant unite. 
Transformed to combs, the speckled and the 

white; 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows; 
Puflfs, powders, patches. Bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful Beauty puts on all its arms ; 



682 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face. 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
Tlie busy sylphs surround their darling care ; 
These set the head, and those divide tlie hair. 
Some fold the sleeve, while others plait the 

gown, 
And Betty's praised for labors not her own. 
Alexander Pope. 



THE COURTIJV'. 

tOD makes such nights all white an' still 
Fur'z you can look or listen. 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru' the winder. 

An' thar sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to bender. 

A flre-place filled the room's one side, 

AVith half a cord o' wood in • 
There warn't no stoves, tell comfort died, 

To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her. 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbly crook-necks hung, 

An' in among 'em rusted 
The old queen arm that granther Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in. 
Seemed Avarm from floor to ceilin'. 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On such a blessed creetur ; 
A dog-rose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A 1, 

Clear grit an' human natur' ; 
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton, 

Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals. 
He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 



Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells ; 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins would run 
All crinkly like curled maple ; 

The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice had such a swing 

Ez his'n in the choir ; 
My ! when he made Old Hundered ring, 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she'd blushed scarlet, right in prayer 
When her new meetin' bonnet 

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some I 
She seemed to've gut a new soul, 

For she felt sarten sure he'd come, 
Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-rasping on the scraper ; 
All ways to once her feelin's flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat. 

Some doubtfle of the sekle ; 
His heart kep' goin' pity pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kept to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ?" 
" Wal, no ; I come designin' " — 

" To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clothes 
Agin to-morrow's i'nin'." 

To say why gals acts so or so, 
Or don't, would be presumin' ; 

Mebby to mean yes an' say no 
Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 

Then stood a spell on t'other. 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He couldn't ha' told you nuther. 

Says he," I'd better call again." 
Says she, " Think likely. Mister." 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
An'— wal, he up an' kissed her. 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



683 



When Ma bimeby upon em' slips, 

Huldy sat pale ez ashes, 
All kin' o' smiley round the lips, 

An' teary round the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary, 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snow-hid in Janooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin, 
Tell mother see how matters stood. 

An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red came back like the tide 

Down to the Bay of Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come next Sunday. 

James Russell Lowell. 

("• Hosea Biglow.'') 



And I'd speak had 1 courage to speak. 
But her forte's to evaluate tt. 

Andrew Lang. 



BALLADE OF A GLBL OF 
ERUDITIOJ^, 

§HE has just put her gown on at Girton. 
She is learned in Latin and Greek ; 
But lawn tennis she plays w ith a skirt on 
That the prudish observe with a shriek. 
In her accents perhaps she is weak 

(Ladies are^ one observes with a sigh), 
But in her algebra — there she's unique. 
But her forte's to evaluate ". 

She can talk about putting a " spirt on" 

(I admit an unmaidenly freak). 
And she dearly delighteth to flirt on 

A punt in some shadowy creek ; 
Should her bark by mischance spring a leak, 

She can swim as a swallow can fly ; 
She can fence, she can put with a cleek. 

But her forte's to evaluate it. 

She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton, 

Coins, vases, mosaic, the antique. 
Old tiles with the secular dirt on. 

Old marbles with noses to seek. 
And her Cobet she quotes by the week, 

And she's written on Ken and on Kai^ 
And her service is swift and oblique. 

But her forte's to evaluate n. 

ENVOY. 

Princess like a rose is her cheek. 
And her eyes are as blue as the sky; 



THE TEJYDER HEART, 

^HE gazed upon the burnished brace 

j^ Of plump ruffed grouse he showed with 

pride ; 
Angelic grief was in her face : 

'' How could you do it, dear?" she sighed. 
" The poor, pathetic, moveless wings ! 

The songs all hushed ; O, cruel shame !" 
Said he, " The partridge never sings." 

Said she, " The sin is quite the same." 

" You men are savage through and through. 

A boy is always bringing in 
Some string of bird's eggs, white and blue, 

Or butterflies upon a pin. 
The angle worm in anguish dies, 

Impaled, the pretty trout to tease — " 
*'My own, we fish for trout with flies" 

"• Don't wander from the question, please !" 

She quoted Burns' "Wounded Hare," 

And certain burning lines of Blake's, 
And Ruskin on the fovvls of air. 

And Coleridge on the water snakes. 
At Emerson's " Forbearance" he 

Began to feel his will benumbed ; 
At Browning's "' Donald" utterly 

His soul surrendered and succumbed. 

" O gentlest of all gentle girls," 

He thought, "beneath the blessed sun!" 
He saw her lashes hung with pearls. 

And swore to give away his gun. 
She smiled to find her point was gained. 

And went with happy, parting words 
(He subsequently ascertained) 

To trim her hat with humming birds. 

Helen Gray Cone. 



MYAUJfT 

1^ Y aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 
j/®i Long years have o'er her flown ; 
Yet still she strains the aching clasp 

That binds her virgin zone ; 
I know it hurts her, though she looks 

As cheerful as she can ; 
Her waist is ampler than her life, 

For life is but a span. 



684 



POEMS OF WIT AKD HUMOR. 



My aunt ! my poor deluded aunt ! 

Her hair is almost gray ; 
Why will she train that winter curl 

In such a springlike way ? 
How can she lay her glasses down, 

And say she reads as well, 
When through a double convex lens. 

She just makes out to spell ? 

Her father — grandpapa, forgive 

This erring lip its smiles ! — 
Vowed she should make the finest girl 

Within a hundred miles ; 
He sent her to a stylish school ; 

'Twas in her thirteenth June ; 
And with ber»^s the rules required, 

" Two towelsWd a spoon." 

They braced my aunt against a board. 

To make her straight and tall ; 
They laced her up, they starved her down, 

To make her light and small ; 
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair. 

They screwed it up with pins ; 
Oh, never mortal suifered more 

In penance for her sins ! 

So, when my precious aunt was done. 

My grandsire brought her back 
By daylight, lest some rabid youth 

Might follow on the track ; 
" Ah !" said my grandsire, as he shook 

Some powder in his pan, 
" What could this lovely creature do 

Against a desperate man?" 

Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche, 

Nor bandit cavalcade. 
Tore from the trembling father's arms 

The ail accomplished maid. 
For her how happy had it been ! 

And Heaven had spared to me 
To see one sad, ungathered rose 

On my ancestral tree. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE BELLE OF THE BALL- 
ROOM. 

rlARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams 
Had been of being wise or witty ; 
Ere I had done with writing themes, 
Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty ; 
Years, years ago, while all my joys 



Were in my fowling-piece and filly ; 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 
I feU in love with Laura Lilly. 

I saw her at the Country Ball : 

There when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall. 

Of hands across and down the middle. 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that sets young hearts romancing : 
She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 



And 



then she 
dancing ! 



danced — oh, heaven, her 



Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender. 
Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 

I never saw a waist so slender; 
Her every look, her every smile. 

Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle. 

And wondered where she'd left her spar- 
rows. 

She talked of politics or prayers — 

Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's son- 
nets. 
Of danglers or of dancing bears. 

Of battles, or the last new bonnets ; 
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, 

To me it matter'd not a tittle. 
If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 

I might have thought they murmured 
Little. 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal ; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. 
My mother laughed ; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
My father frown'd ; but how should gout 

See any happiness in kneeling ? 

She was the daughter of a dean, — 

Eich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
She had one brother just thirteen. 

Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
Her grandmother, for many a year, 

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
Her second cousin was a peer. 

And lord-lieutenant of the county. 

But titles and the three per cents. 
And mortgages, and great relations, 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



685 



And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 
Oh! what are they to love's sensations? 

Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, 
Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses ; 

He cares as little for the stocks. 
As Baron Rothschild for the muses. 

She sketch'd ! the vale, the wood, the beach, 

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading ; 
She botanized ; I envied each 

Young blossom in her boudoir fading ; 
She warbled Handel ; it was grand — 

She made the Catalina jealous ; 
She touched the organ ; I could stand 

For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 

She kept an album, too, at home, 

Well filled with all an album's glories ; 
Paintings of butterflies and Rome, 

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories; 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; 
And autographs of Prince Leboo, 

And recipes of elder water. 



And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored; 

Her steps were watched, her dress 
noted. 
Her poodle dog was quite adored. 

Her sayings were extremely quoted. 
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, 

As if the taxes were abolished ; 
She frown'd, and every look was sad, 

As if the opera were demolished. 



was 



Our parting was all sob and sigh — 
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; 

For in my heart's most secret cell. 
There had been many other lodgers ; 

And she was not the ball-room's belle. 
But only — Mrs. Something Rogers ! 

WlNTHROP MaCKWORTH PrAED. 




She smil'd on many just for fun, — 

I knew that there was nothing in it ; 
I was the first, the only one 

Her heart had thought of for a minute ; 
I knew it, for she told me so. 

In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 
She wrote a charming hand, and oh ! 

How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 

Our love was like most other loves, — 

A little glow, a little shiver ; 
A rosebud and a pair of gloves. 

And " Fly iSTot Yet," upon the river ; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir. 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
A miniature, a lock of hair. 

The usual vows — and then we parted. 

We parted — months and years roll'd by ; 
We met again four summers after; 



WlKTHROP MaCKWORTH PrAED. 



A MUSICAL BOX. 

KNOW her, the thing of laces, and silk, 

And ribbons, and gauzes, and crinoline. 

With her neck and shoulders as white as milk, 

And her doll-like face and conscious mien. 



A lay-figure fashioned to fit a dress. 
All stuffed within with straw and bran : 

Is that a woman to love, to caress ? 
Is that a creature to charm a man? 

Only listen ! how charmingly she talks 
Of your dress and hers — of the Paris mode — 

Of the coming ball — of the opera box — 
Of jupons, and flounces, and fashions abroad. 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



Not a bonnet in church but she knows it well, 
And Fashion she worships with down-cast 
eyes ; 

A marchande de modes is her oracle, 
And Paris her earthly paradise. 




I know her, the thing of laces, and silk, 
And ribbon, and gauzes, and crinoline. 



She's perfect to whirl with in a waltz ; 

And her shoulders show well on a soft divan, 
As she lounges at night and spreads her silks, 

And plays with her bracelets and flirts her 
fan,— 

With a little laugh at whatever you say, 
And rounding her "No " with a look of sur- 
prise. 

And lisping her " Yes " with an air distrait. 
And a pair of aimless, wandering eyes. 

Her duty this Christian never omits! 

She makes her calls, and she leaves her 
cards. 
And enchants a circle of half-fledged wits, 

And slim attaches and six-foot Guards. 

Her talk is of people, who're nasty or nice, 
And she likes little bon-bon compliments ; 

While she seasons their sweetness by way of 
spice. 
By some witless scandal she often invents. 

Is this the thing for a mother or wife ? 

Could love ever grow on such barren rocks? 
Is this a companion to take for a wife ? 

One might as well marry a musical box. 



YTou exhaust in a day her full extent, 
'Tis the same little tinkle of tunes always. 

You must wind her up with a compliment, 
To be bored with the only airs she plays. 
William Wetmorb Story. 



SAJfCHO PAMZA'S DJSCISIOJVS. 

(From "Don Quixote.") 

ANCHO, with all his attendants, came to a town that had about a thousand inhabitants 
and was one of the best where the duke had any power. They gave him to under- 
stand that the name of the place was the island of Barataria, either because the town 
was called Barataria, or because the Government cost him so cheap. As soon as he 
came to the gates (for it was walled) the chief officers and inhabitants, in their formalities, 
came out to receive him, the bells rung, and all the people gave general demonstrations of 
their joy. The new governor was then carried in mighty pomp to the great church, to give 
Heaven thanks; and, after some ridiculous ceremonies, they delivered him the keys of the 
gates, and received him as perpetual governer of the Island of Barataria. In the mean time 
the garb, the port, the huge beard, and the short and thick shape of the new governor, made 
every one who knew nothing of the jest wonder; and even those who were privy to the plot, 
who were many, were not a little surprised. 






POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 687 

In short, from the church they carried him to the court of justice ; where, when they had 
placed him in his seat, " My Lord Governor," said the Duke's steward to him, " it is an an- 
cient custom here, that he who takes possession of this famous island must answer to some 
difficult and intricate question that is propounded to him ; and, by the return he makes, the 
people feel the pulse of his understanding, and, by an estimate of his abilities, judge whether 
they ought to rejoice or to be sorry for his coming." 

All the while the steward was speaking, Sancho was staring on an inscription in large 
characters on the wall over against his seat ; and, as he could not read, he asked, what was 
the meaning of that which he saw printed there upon the wall? " Sir," said they, "it is an 
account of the day when your lordship took possession of this island ; and the inscription runs 
thus : "This day, being such a day of this month, in such a year, the Lord Don Sancho Panza 
took possession of this island, which may he long enjoy." " And who is he," asked Sancho? 
" Your lordship," answered the steward ; " for we know of no other Panza in this island but 
yourself, who now sit in this chair." 

"Well friend," said Sancho, "pray take notice that Don does not belong to me, nor was it 
borne by any of my family before me. Plain Sancho Panza is my name ; my father was call- 
ed Sancho, my grandfather Sancho, and all of us have been Panzas, without any Don or Don- 
na to our name. Now do I already guess your Dons are as thick as stones in this island. But 
it is enough that Heaven knows my meaning ; if my government happens to last but four 
days to an end, it shall go hard but I will clear the island of these swarms of Dons that must 
needs be as troublesome as so many flesh-flies. Come, now for your question, good Mr. 
Steward, and I will answer it as well as I can, whether the town be sorry or pleased." 

At the same instant two men came into the court, the one dressed like a country fellow, 
the other like a tailor, with a pair of shears in his hand. " If it please you, my lord," cried 
the tailor, " I and this farmer here are come before your worship. This honest man came to 
my shop yesterday, for, saving your presence, I am a tailor, and. Heaven be praised, free of 
any company; so, my lord, he showed me a piece of cloth. ' Sir,' quoth he, ' is there enough 
of this to make a cap ?' Whereupon I measured the stufi", and answered him, ' Yes, if it 
like your worship.' Now as I imagined, do you see, he could not but imagine (and perhaps 
he imagined right enough) that I had a mind to cabbage some of his cloth, judging hard of 
us honest tailors. 'Prithee,' quoth he, 'look there be not enough for two caps?' Now I 
smelt him out and told him there was. Whereupon the old knave (if it like your worship,) 
going on to the same tune, bid me look again, and see whether I would not make three ? And 
at last, if it would not make five ? I was resolved to humor my customer, and said it might; 
so we struck a bargain. 

" Just now the man is come for his caps, which I gave him ; but when I asked him for my 
money, he will have me give him his cloth again, or pay him for it." " Is this true, honest 
man ?" said Sancho to the farmer. " Yes, if it please you," answered the fellow, " but pray 
let him show the five caps he has made me." "With all my heart," cried the tailor; and 
with that, pulling his hand from under his cloak, he held up five little tiny caps, hanging up- 
on his four fingers and thumb, as upon so many pins. "There," quoth he, "you see the five 
caps this good gaffer asks for ; and may I never whip a stitch more if I have wronged him of 
the least snip of his cloth, and let any workman be judge." The sight of the caps and the 
oddness of the cause, set the whole court a laughing. Only Sancho sat gravely considering 
awhile, and then, "Methinks," said he, "this suit here needs not be long depending, but may 
be decided without any more ado, with a great deal of equity ; and, therefore, the judgment 
of the court is, that the tailor shall lose his making, and the countryman his cloth, and that 
the caps be given to the poor prisoners, and so let there be an end of the businesSo" 

If this sentence provoked the laughter of the whole court, the next no less raised their ad- 



688 ■■■""" POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. .♦•^t™^^^— 

miration. For, after the governor's order was executed, two old men appeared before him, 
one of them with a large cane in his hand, which he used as a staff. " My Lord," said the 
other who had none, ''some time ago I lent this man ten gold crowns to do him a kindness, 
which money he was to pay me on demand. 1 did not ask him for it again in a good while, lest 
it should prove a greater inconvenience to him to repay me than he laboured under when he 
borrowed it. However, perceiving that he took no care to pay me, I have asked him for my 
due, nay, I have been forced to dun him hard for it. But still he did not only refuse to pay me 
again, but denied he owed me anything, and said that if I lent him so much money he cer- 
tainly returned it. Now, because I have no witnesses of the loan, nor he of the pretended 
payment, 1 beseech your lordship to put him to his oath, and if he will swear he has paid 
me, I will freely forgive him before God and the world." " What say you to this, old gentle- 
man with the staff?" asked Sancho. " Sir," answ^ered the old man, "I own he lent me the 
gold ; and since he requires my oath, I beg you will be pleased to hold down your rod of just- 
ice, that I may swear upon it how I have honestly and truly returned him his money." There- 
upon the Governor held down his rod, and in the mean time the defendant gave his cane to 
the plaintiff to hold, as if it hindered him, while he was to make a cross and sw^ear over the 
judge's rod : this done, he declared that it was true the other had lent him ten crowns, but 
that he had really returned him the same sum into his own hands; and, that because he suppos- 
ed the plaintiff had forgotten it, he was continually asking him for it. The great Governor, 
hearing this, asked the creditor w^hat he had to reply? He made answer, that since his adver- 
sary had sworn it he was satisfied ; for he believed him to be a better Christian than offer to 
forsw^ear himself, and perhaps he had forgotten he had been repaid. Then the defendant took 
his cane again, and having made a low obeisance to the judge, was immediately leaving the 
court; which, when Sancho perceived, reflecting on the passage of the cane, and admiring the 
creditor's patience, after he had studied awhile with his head leaning over his stomach, and 
his forefinger on his nose, on a sudden he ordered the old man with the staff to be called 
back. When he was returned, " Honest man," said Sancho, " let me see that cane a little, 
I have a use for it." " With all my heart," answered the other ; " sir, here it is," and with 
that he gave it him, Sancho took it, and giving it to the other old man, " There," said he, 
" go your ways, and Heaven be with you, for now you are paid." *' How so, my Lord ?" cried 
the old man ; "do you judge this cane to be w-orth ten gold crow^ns?" "Certainly," said the 
Governor, " or else I am the greatest dunce in the world. And now you shall see whether I 
have not a headpiece fit to govern a whole kingdom upon a shift." This said, he ordered the 
cane to be broken in open court, which was no sooner done, than out dropped the ten crowns. 
All the spectators were amazed, and began to look upon their Governor as a second Solomon. 
They asked him how he could conjecture that the ten crowns were in the cane? He told 
them that having observed how the defendant gave it to the plaintiff to hold while he took 
his oath, and then swore that he had truly returned him the money into his own hands, after 
which he took his cane again from the plaintiff, this considered, it came into his head that the 
money was lodged within the reed; from whence may be learned, that though sometimes 
those that govern are destitute of sense, yet it often pleases God to direct them in their judg- 
ment. Besides, he had heard the curate of his parish tell of such another business, and he had 
such a special memory that, were he not to forget all that he had a mind to remember, there 
could not have been a better in the whole island. 

At last the two old men went away, the one to his satisfaction, the other with eternal shame 
and disgrace ; and the beholders w^ere astonished, insomuch that the person who was com- 
missioned to register Sancho's words and actions, and observe his behavior, was not able to 
determine whether he should not give him the character of a wise man, instead of that of a 
fool, which he had been thought to deserve. Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR 

:koboi)Y. 

F nobody's noticed you, you must be small 



If nobody's slighted you, you must be tall ; 
If nobody's bowed to you, you must be low ; 
If nobody's kissed you, you're ugly we know. 



If nobody's envied you, you're a poor elf; 
If nobody's flattered you, you've flattered 

yourself; 
If nobody's cheated you, you're a knave ; 
If nobody's hated you, you're a slave. 

If nobody's called you a fool to your face. 
Somebody's wished you back in its place ; 
If nobody's called you a tyrant or scold. 
Somebody thinks you of spiritless mould. 

If nobody knows of your faults but a friend, 
Nobody will miss them at the world's end ; 
If nobodj^ clings to your purse like a fawn, 
Nobody '11 run like a hound w^hen its gone. . 

If nobody's eaten his bread from your store, 
Nobody'll call you a miserly bore ; 
If nobody's slandered you — here is our pen. 
Sign yourself " Nobody," quick as you can. 

AXOXYMOUS. 



And, when the time for departure came, 
The bag was flat as a flounder; 

But Bessie had neatly hooked her game — 
A hundred-and-eighty pounder. 

Anonymous. 



FISHIJYG. 

§NE morning, when spring was in her 
teens — 
A morn to a poet's wishing. 
All tinted in delicate pinks and greens — 
Miss Bessie and I went fishing ; 

I, in my rough and easy clothes, 
With my face at the sunshine's mercy: 

She, with her hat tipped down to her nose, 
And her nose tipped — vice versa ; 

I, with my rod, my reel and my hooks. 
And a hamper for lunching recesses ; 

She with the bait of her comely looks. 
And the seine of her golden tresses. 

So we sat down on the sunny dyke, 
Where the white pond-lilies teeter. 

And I went to fishing, like quaint old Ike, 
And she like Simon Peter. 

All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes. 
And dreamily watched and waited ; 

But the fish were cunning and would not rise, 
And the baiter alone was baited. 



THE DEVIL. 

/IjjNEN don't believe in a devil now, as their 

Vl?/ fathers used to do ; 

They've forced the door of the broadest creed 

to let his Majesty through ; 
There isn't a print of his cloven foot, or a 

fiery dart from his bow, 
To be found in earth or air to-day, for the 

world has voted so. 



But who is mixing the fatal draught that pal- 
sies heart and brain. 

And loads the earth of each passing year with 
ten hundred thousand slain? 

Who blights the bloom of the land to-day 
with the fiery breath of hell. 

If the devil isn't and never was? Won't 
somebody rise and tell ? 

Who dogs the steps of the toiling saint, and 

digs the pits for his feet ? 
Who sows the tares in the field of time w^her- 

ever God sows his wheat ? 
The Devil is voted not to be, and of course 

the thing is true ; 
But who is doing the kind of work the Devil 

alone should do ? 

We are told he does not go about as a roaring 

lion now ; 
But whom shall we hold responsible for the 

everlasting row. 
To be heard in home, in church and state, to 

the earth's remotest bound. 
If the Devil, by a unanimous vote, is nowhere 

to be found ? 

Won't somebody step to the front forthwith, 

and make his bow and show 
How the frauds and the crimes of the day 

spring up — for surely we want to know. 
The Devil was fairly voted out, and of course 

the Devil is gone ; 
But simple people would like to know w^ho 

carries his business on. 

Anonymous. 



690 POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOE. 1 

JueX. ^ {im4i CruU, UtAKL U^, 




.^ TIRED WOMAJY'S EPITAPH. 

ES," she sighed, " the world is hard, especially to the poor. I often think that the 

good people who eulogize work so highly do not know much of over-work." 

"Quite true," asserted Mrs. Sotheran. "Poor Sarah Dempster, yonder (she 

pointed to a neighboring tombstone), was of your opinion ; her epitaph, unlike those 

of most of us, paints her life as it really was. If you never read it, it is worth your while to 




POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



691 



do so." The tombstone stood in a neglected corner of the churchyard, overgrown with net- 
tles and long grasses, but its inscription was still legible : 

Here lies a poor woman who always was tired, 

Who lived in a house where help was not hired; 

Her last words on earth were: '• Dear friends, I am going 

Where washing ain't done, nor sweeping, nor sewing; 

But everything there is exact to my wishes, 

For where the\^ don't eat there's no washing up dishes. 

I'll he where loud anthems will always be ringing, 

But having no voice, I'll get clear of the singing. 

Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never, 

I'm going to do nothing forever and ever." 

"That may not be poetry," observed Mrs. Sotheran, with unconscious plagiarism, "but it's 

true. There is nothing much worse than overwork." 

James Payne. 
o 







W^^m^IuaAua^ 



692 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



ADDRESS TO AJ^ EGYPTIAJV 

MUMMT. 

ND thou hast walked about — how strange 
a story ! 
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years 
ago! 
When the Memnoniura was in all its glory, 

And time had not begun to overthrow 
Those temples, palaces and piles stupendous. 
Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dum- 
my ; 
Thou hast a tongue ; come, let us hear its 
tune ; 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, 
mummy. 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon ; 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 

But with the bones, and flesh, and limbs, and 
features. 

Tell us, for doubtless thou can'st recollect. 
To whom should we assign the sphinx's 
fame? 
Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name? 
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by 
Homer? 

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden 
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade ; 
Then say, what secret melody was hidden 
In Memnon's statue, w^hich at sunrise play- 
ed ? 
Perhaps thou wert a priest ; if so, my strug- 
gles 
Are vain, for priest-craft never owns its jug- 
gles. 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 
Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to 
glass ; 

Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat. 
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass; 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee, if that hand, when armed. 
Has anv Roman soldier mauled and knuck- 
led ; 
For thou wast dead and burled, and embalm- 
ed, 
Era Romulus and Remus had been suckled ; 



Antiquity appears to have begun 
Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs 
have seen. 

How the world looked when it was young. 
And the great deluge still had left it green ; 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages ? 

Still silent! Incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows! 
But prythee, tell us something of thyself; 
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slum- 
bered. 
What hast thou seen, what strange adventures 
hast thou numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
We have, above ground, seen some strange 
mutations ; 

The Roman Empire has begun and ended, 
New worlds have risen, we have lost old na- 
tions 

And countless kings have into dust been hum- 
bled. 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crum- 
bled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head. 
When the great Persian conquerer, Camby- 
ses. 
Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thunder- 
ing tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 
And shook the pyramids with fear and won- 
der. 
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 

The nature of thy private life unfold ; 
A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern 
breast. 
And tears adown that dusty cheek have 
rolled ; 
Have children climbed those knees, and kiss- 
ed that face ? 
What was thy name and station, age and race? 

Statue of flesh! immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type ©f evanescence! 
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow 
bed, 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



And standest undecayed within our pres- 
ence! 

Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment 
morning, 

When the great trump shall thrill thee with 
its warning! 

Why should this worthless tegument endure, 
If its undying guest be lost forever? 

Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure. 
In living virtue, that when both must sever, 

Although corruption may our frame consume. 

The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! 

Horace Smith. 

AJYSWEB OF THE MUMMY. 
/^HILD of the later days! thy words have 
vS* broken 
A spell that long has bound these lungs of 
clay, 
For since this smoke-dried tongue of mine 
has spoken, 
Three thousand tedious years have rolled 
away. 
Unswathed at length, I "stand at ease^' before 

ye; 
List, then, oh list ! while I unfold my story ! 



One blunder I can fairly set at rest : 
He says that men were once more big and 
bony 

Than now, which is a bouncer at the best ; 
I'll just refer you to our friend Belzoni, 

Near seven feet high ; in truth, a lofty figure ; 

Now look at me, and tell me, am I bigger? 

Not half the size ; but then, I'm sadly dwin- 
dled; 
Three thousand years with that embalming 
glue 
Have made a serious difference, and have 
swindled 
My face of all its beauty ; there were few 
Egyptian youths more gay: behold the sequel! 
Nay, smile not ; you and I may soon be equal. 

For this lean hand did one day hurl the lance 

With mortal aim ; this light, fantastic toe 
Threaded the mystic mazes of the dance; 
This heart has throbbed at tales of love and 
woe ; 
These shreds of raven hair once set the fash- 
ion ; 
This withered form inspired the tender pas- 



Thebes was my birth-place, an unrivaled city. 
With many gates ; but here I might declare 

Some strange plain truths, except that it were 
pity 
To blow a poet's fabric into air. 

Oh ! I could read you quite a Theban lecture, 

And give a deadly finish to conjecture. 

But then you would not have me throw dis- 
credit 

On grave historians, or on him who sung 
The Iliad! true it is I never read it, 

But heard it read, when I was very young; 
An old blind minstrel, for a trifling profit. 
Recited parts — I think the author of it. 

All that I know about the town of Homer 
Is that they scarce would own him in his 

day, 
Were glad, too, when he proudly turned a 

roamer. 
Because by this they saved their parish pay; 
His townsmen would have been ashamed to 

flout him. 
Had they foreseen the fuss since made about 

Mm. 



In vain ; the skillful hand and feelings warm. 
The foot that followed in the bright quad- 
rille. 
The palm of genius and the manly form, 
All bowed at once to Death's mvsterious 
will. 
Who sealed me up where mummies sound are 

sleeping, 
In sere cloth and in tolerable keeping ; 

Where cows and monkeys squat in rich bro- 
cade. 

And well-dressed crocodiles in painted cases. 

Rats, bats, and owls, and cats in masquerade, 
With scarlet flounces, and with varnished 
faces ; 

Then birds, brutes, reptiles, fish, all crammed 
together. 

With ladies that might pass for well-tanned 
leather. 

Where Rameses and Sabacon lie down. 
And splendid Psammis in his hide of crust, 

Princes and heroes, men of high renown. 
Who in their day kicked up a mighty dust ; 



694 



rOEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



There swarthy mummies kicked up dust in 
number, 

When huge Belzoni came to scare their slum- 
ber. 

Who'd think these rusty hams of mine were 
seated 
At Dido's table, when the wondrous tale 
Of "Juno's hatred" was so well repeated, 

And ever and anon the queen turned pale? 
Meanwhile the brilliant gas-lights hung above 

her 
Threw a wild glare upon her ship-wrecked 
lover. 

Ay, gaslights! mock me not; we men of yore 
Were versed in all the knowledge you can 
mention ; 
Who hath not heard of Egypt's peerless lore, 

Her patient toil, acuteness of invention ? 
Survey the proofs ; the pyramids are thriving. 
Old Memnon still looks young, and I'm sur- 
viving. 

A land in arts and sciences prolific, 

block gigantic, building up her fame, 
Crowded with signs and letters hieroglyphic. 

Temples and obelisks, her skill proclaim : 
Yet though her art and toil unearthly seem. 
Those blocks were brought on railroads and 
by steam. 

How, when, and why, our people came to 
rear 
The pyramid of Cheops, mighty pile : 
This, and the other secrets thou shalt hear ; 

1 will unfold, if thou wilt stay awhile, 
The history of the sphinx, and who began it, 
Our mystic works, and monsters made of 

granite. 

Well, then, in grievous times, when King 
Cephrenes— 
But ah! what's this? the shades of bards 
and kings 
Press on my lips their fingers! What they 
mean is 
I am not to reveal those hidden things. 
Mortal, farewell! Till Science' self unbind 

them, 
Men must e'en take these secrets as they find 
them. 

Anonymous. 



THIEVERY. 

(From "Timon of Athens," Act IV., Scene 3.) 

'LL example you with thievery : 
The sun's a thief, and with his great at- 
traction 
Robs the vast sea; the moon's an arrant thief, 
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun : 
The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves 
The moon into salt tears ; the earth's a thief, 
That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen 
From general excrement; each thing's a thief; 
The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough 

power 
Have unchecked theft. Love not yourselves: 

away ; 
Rob one another. There's more gold : Cut 

throats; 
All that you meet are thieves : To Athens, go, 
Break open shops ; nothing can you steal, 
But thieves do lose it : Steal not less, for this 
I give you, and gold confound you howsoever. 
Amen. 

William Shakspeee. 



DOUBLES. 

(From " Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg.") 

f HERE'S strength in double joints, no 
doubt. 
In double X Ale and Dublin Stout, 
That the single sorts know nothing about ; 

And a fist is strongest when doubled ; 
And double aqua-fortis, of course, 
And double soda-water, perforce 



There's double beauty wherever a swan 
Swims on a lake, with her double thereon ; 
And ask the gardener, Luke or John, 

Of the beauty of double-blowing; 
A double dahlia delights the eye ; 
And it's far the loveliest sight in the sky 

When a double rainbow is glowing. 

There's warmth in a pair of double soles, 
As well as a double allowance of coals ; 

In a coat that is double-breasted ; 
In double windows and double doors; 
And a double U wind is blest by scores 

For its warmth to the tender-chested. 

There's twofold sweetness in double pipes ; 
And a double barrel and a double snipes 
Give a sportsman a duplicate pleasure; 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



695 




There S double safety in double locks ; 
And double letters bring cash for the box ; 
And all the world knows that double knocks 
Are gentility's double measure. 

There's a double sweetness in double rhymes, 
And a double at whist, and a double times 

In profit are certainly double ; 
By doubling, the hare contrives to escape ; 
And all seamen delight in a doubled cape, 

And a double-reefed topsail in trouble. 

There's a double chuck at a double chin, 
And of course there's a double pleasure there- 
in, 



If the parties are brought to telling ; 
And however our Dennises take offense, 
A double meaning shows double sense ; 
And if proverbs tell truth, 
A double tooth 
Is wisdom's adopted dwelling. 

But double wisdom, and pleasure, and sense, 
Beauty, respect, strength, comfort, and thence 

Through whatever the list discovers, 
They are all in the double-blessedness sum- 
med. 
Of what was formerly double-drummed, 
The marriage of two true lovers. 

Thomas Hood. 



696 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



HE XEVER KjYOWED. 

§LD BILLY B. was a pious man, 
And heaven was his goal ; 
For, being a very saving man. 
Of course he'd save his soul. 
But even in this, he used to say, 

" One can't too careful be," 
And he sang with a fervor unassumed, 
" I'm glad salvation's free." 

But the " means of grace," he had to own. 

Required good, hard earned gold : 
And he took ten pews, as well became 

The richest of the fold. 
" He's a noble man !" the preacher cried, 

" Our Christian Brother B." 
And Billy smiled as he sub-let nine. 

And got his own pew free ! 

In class meeting next old Billy told 

How heaven had gracious been. 
Yea, even back in the dark days when 

He was a man of sin. 
"I's buildin' a barn on my river farm — 

"All I then had," he said; 
" I'd run out o' boards, an' was feedin' hands 

'' On nothin' but corn bread. 

"I tell ye, brethren, that I felt blue. 

Short o' timber and cash. 
And thought I'd died when the banks then 
bust. 

And flooded all my mash. 
But the Lord was merciful to me, 

And sent right through the rift 
The tide had made in the river banks 

A lumber raft adrift. 

** Plenty o' boards was there for the barn, 

Ai;d on the top was a cheese, 
And a bar'l o' pork as sound and sweet 

As any one ever sees. 
Then I had bread and meat for the men. 

And they worked with a will. 
While I thanked God, who'd been good to me. 

And I'm doing it still." 

A shrill voiced sister cried " Bless the Lord I" 

The whole class cried '* Amen !" 
But a keen-eyed man looked at Billy B. 

In thoughtful way, and then 
Asked: "Brother B., did you ever hear 

Who lost that raft and load ?" 
And Billy wiped his eyes and said : 

"Brethren, I never knowed!" 

Anonymous, 



THE BIRTH OF GREEK ERIK. 

(The following poem was originally published, the editor 
is informed, in an anonymous novel, issued more than 
thirty years ago, entitled "Tom Stapleton." All efforts 
to secure a copy of the book having failed, the poem is 
here reproduced from memory, neither the editor nor the 
informant having seen it for more than twelve years.) 

^/'ITH all condescension, 
I'd turn yees attention 
To fhat I would mintion av Erin so green ; 
And without hesitation 
Would show how that nation 
Became av creation the gem and the queen. 

It happened wan marnin'. 

Without any warnin', 
That Yaynus was born in the beautiful say ; 

An', be that same token. 

An' sure 'twas provokin'. 
Her pinions war soakin', and wouldn't give 
play. 

Thin ISTeptune, who knew her. 

Began to pursue her. 
In order to woo her, the wicked auld Jew ; 

An' he very nigh caught her. 

Atop av the water, 
Great Jupiter's daughter, who cried "Poot-a- 
loo !" 

Then Jove, the great jaynius, 

Looked down and saw Vaynus, 
And Neptune so haynious pursuin' her wild, 

An' he roared out in thunder 

He'd tear him asundher ! 
An' sure 'twas no wondher for tazin' his child! 

An' a star that was flyin' 

Around him, espyin'. 
He sazed Avithout sighin' and hurled it below. 

It fell, without winkin', 

On Neptune, while sinkin'. 
An' gave him, I'm thinkin', a broth av a blow. 

An' that star it war dry land, 

Both lowland and highland. 
An' formed a swate island, the land of me 
birth ; 

Thus plain is the story, 

Kaze sint down from glory. 
That Erin so hoary's a heaven on earth. 

Thin Vaynus jumped nately 
On Erin so stately. 
And fainted, being lately so bothered and 
prisht. 
Which her much did bewildher ; 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOK. 



697 



But before it quite killed her, 
Her father diithilled her adhrop av thebisht. 

An' that glass so victorious, 
It made her feel glorious ; 
A thrifle uproarious, I fear I might prove. 
Thin how can ye blame us 
That Erin's so famous 
For beauty, and murther, an' whiskey, an' 
love! 

Anonymous. 



DEAFJYESS. 

(From "A Tale of a Trumpet.") 

§F all old women hard of hearing, 
The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor 
Spearing I 
On her head, it is true, 
Two flaps there grew, 
That served for a pair of gold rings to go 

through ; 
But for any purpose of ears in a parley, 
They heard no more than ears of barley. 

■X- -x- * * * * 

She was deaf as a house, which modern tricks 
Of language ^ould call "as deaf as bricks ;" 
For all her human kind were dumb ; 
Her drum, indeed, was so muffled a dnmi. 



That none could get a sound to come. 
Unless as the Devil who had Two Sticks ! 
She was deaf as a stone— say one of the stones 
Demosthenes sucked to improve his tones ; 
And surely deafness no further could reach 
Than to be in his mouth without hearing his 
speech ! 



She was deaf as any tradesman's dummy. 
Or as Pharaoh's mother's mother's mummy, 
Whose organs, for fear of our modern scep- 
tics. 
Were plugged with gums and antiseptics. 

She was deaf as a nail, that you cannot hammer 
A meaning into for all your clamor ; 
There never was such a deaf old gammer, 

So formed to worry 

Both Lindley and Murray, 
By having no ear for music or grammar! 

Deaf to sounds, as a ship out of soundings. 
Deaf to verbs and all their compoundings, 
Adjective, noun, and adverb, and particle, 
Deaf to even the definite article ; 
No verbal message was worth a pin. 
Though you hired an earwig to carry it in! 

Thoimas Hood. 



TEE CHIJYESE LAJVGUAOE. 

(From "China.") 

N a country where the roses have no fragrance, and the women wear no petticoats ; where 
the labourer has no Sabbath, and the magistrate no sense of honour; where the roads 
bear no vehicles, and the ships no keels; where old men fly kites; where the needle 
points south, and the sign of being puzzled is to scratch the antipodes of your head; 
where the place of honour is on your left hand, and the seat of intellect is in the stomach ; 
where to take of your hat is an insolent gesture, and to wear white garments is to put your- 
self in mourning — we ought not to be astonished to find a literature without an alphabet, and 
a language without a grammar, and we must not be startled to find that this Chinese lan- 
guage is the most intricate, cumbrous, unwieldy vehicle of thought that ever obtained among 
any people. Geokge Wingrove Cooke. 



KATHARIJYE AKB PETBUCHIO. 

(From the "Taming of the Shrew," Act IV., Scene 1.) 

Re-enter Servants with supper. It was the friar of orders grey, 

fETRUCHIO. Why, when, I say ?— Nay, ^^ he forth walked on his way :— 

good, sweet Kate, be merry. Out, out, you rogue ! you pluck my foot awry: 

Off with my boots, you rogues, you villains ; Take that, and mend the plucking of the other. 

When ? [Strikes him. 

[Sings. Be merry, Kate.— Some water, here ; what, hoi 
43 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



699 



Where is my spaniel, Troilus ?— Sirrah, get 

you hence, 
And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither : — 

[Exit Servant. 

One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be ac- 
quainted with. — 

Where are my slippers ?— Shall I have some 
water? 
Enter a Servant with a basin and ewer. 

Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily:— 
IServant lets the ewer fall. 

You whoreson villain ! will you let it fall ? 

[Strikes him. 

Kath. Patience, I pray you; 'twas a fault 
unwilling. 

Pet. A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear'd 
knave ! 

Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a 
stomach. 

Will you give thanks, sweet Kate; or else 
shall I?— 

What is this ? mutton ? 

1st serv. Ay. 

Pet, Who brought it ? 

1st serv. I. 

Pet. 'Tis burnt ; and so is all the meat : 

What dogs are these? — ^Where is the rascal 
cook? 

How durst you, villains, bring it from the 
dresser. 

And serve it thus to me that love it not ? 

There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all : 
[Throws the meat, etc., about the room. 

You heedless joltheads, and unmanner'd slaves! 

What, do you grumble? I'll be with you 
straight. 

Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so dis- 
quiet ; 

The meat was well, if you were so contented. 

Pet. I tell thee, Kate, 't was burnt and dried 
away ; 

And I expressly am forbid to touch it, 

For it engenders choler, planteth anger ; 

And better 't were that both of us did fast, 

Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric. 

Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. 

Be patient; for to-morrow it shall be mended. 

And, for this night, we'll fast for company. 

Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. 
[Exeunt Petruchio, Katharine, and Curtis. 

Nath. [Advancing.] Peter, didst ever see the 
like? 

Peter. He kills her in her own humour. 

William Shakspere. 



THE JS^EW CHURCH ORGAJf. 

^^HEY'VE got a bran new organ^ Sue, 
■p yor all their fuss and search; 
They've done just as they said they'd do, 

And fetched it into church. 
They're bound the critter shall be seen. 

And on the preacher's right 
They've hoisted up their new machine. 

In everybody's sight. 
They've got a chorister and choir, 

Ag'n MY voice and vote ; 
For it was never my desire 

To praise the Lord by note. 

I've been a sister good an' true 

For five and thirty year ; 
I've done what seemed my part to do. 

An' prayed my duty clear ; 
I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, 

Just as the preacher read, 
And twice when Deacon Tubbs was sick, 

1 took the fork an' led ; 
And now, their bold, new-fangled ways 

Is comin' all about ; 
And I, right in my latter days. 

Am fairly crowded out. 

To-day the preacher, good old dear, 

AYith tears all in his eyes. 
Read " I can read my title clear 

To mansions in the skies." 

I al'ays liked that blessed hymn — 

I s'pose I al'ays will ; 
It somehow gratifies my whim. 

In good old Ortonville ; 
But when that choir got up to sing, 

I could'nt catch a word ; 
They sung the most dog-gondest thing 

A body ever heard ! 

Some worldly chaps was standin' near, 

An' when I seed them grin, 
I bid farewell to every fear, 

And boldly waded in. 
I thought I'd chase their tune along, 

An' tried with all my might ; 
But though my voice is good an'strong^ 

1 couldn't steer it right ; 
When they was high, then I was low. 

An' also contrawise ; 
And I too fast, or they too slow. 

To " mansions in the skies." 

An' after every verse you know 
They played a little tune ; 



700 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



I didn't understand, an' so 

I started in too soon, 
I pitched it pritty middlin high, 

I fetched a lusty tone, 
But oh, alas! I found that I 

Was singin' there alone ! 
They lauglied a little, I am told ; 

But I had done my best; 
And not a wave of trouble rolled 

Across my peaceful breast. 




Will H. Carleton. 

And Sister Brown — 1 could but look- 
She sits right front of me ; 

She never was no singin' book, 
An' never went to be ; 

But then she al'ays tried to do 
The best she could, she said ; 

She understood the time, right through, 
An' kep' it, with her head ; 

But when she tried this mornin', oh, 
I had to laugh or cough ! 

It kep' her head a bobbin' so, 
It e'en a'most came off! 

An' Deacon Tubbs— he all broke down. 

As one might well suppose; 
He took one look at Sister Brown, 

An' meekly scratched his nose. 
He looked his hymn right thro' and thro' 

And laid it on the seat. 
An' then a pensive sigh he drew, 

An' looked completely beat. 



An' when they took another bout, 

He didn't even rise, 
But drawed his red bandanner out, 

An' wiped his weepin' eyes. 

I've been a sister good an' true 

For five an' thirty year ; 
I've done what seemed my part to do. 

An' prayed my duty clear ; 
But death will stop my voice, I know, 

For he is on my track ; 
An' some day I to church will go. 

An never more come back ; 
An' when the folks get up to sing — 

Whene'er that time shall be— 
I do not want no patent thing 

A squealin' over me ! 

Will H. Carleton. 



THE LEARKIJ^G OF HUDIBBAS. 

TtTE was in logic a great critic, 
B^ Profoundly skilled in analytic ; 
He could distinguish, and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
On either which he would dispute. 
Confute, change hands, and still confute ; 
He'd undertake to prove by force 
Of argument a man's no horse ; 
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 
And that a lord may be an owl — 
A calf, an alderman — a goose, a justice — 
And rooks, committee-men and trustees. 
He'd run in debt by disputation, 
And pay with ratiocination : 
All this by syllogism, true 
In mood and figure, he would do. 
For rhetoric, he could not ope 
His mouth but out there flew a trope ; 
And when he happened to break oflt' 
I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 
H' had hard words, ready to shew why, 
And tell what rules he did it by : 
Else, when with greatest art he spoke. 
You'd think he talked like other folk ; 
For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools. 
But, when he pleased to shew't, his speech 
In loftiness of sound w^as rich; 
A Babylonish dialect. 
Which learned pedants much aflfect : 
It was a party-coloured dress 
Of patched and piebald languages ; 
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
Like fustian heretofore on satin. 






POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



701 



It had an odd promiscuous tone, 

As if he had talked three parts in one, 

Which made some think, when he did gabble, 

Th' had heard three labourers of Babel; 

Or Cerberus himself pronounce 

A leash of languages at once. 

This, he as volubly would vent. 

As if his stock would ne'er be spent; 

And truly, to support that charge. 

He had supplies as vast and large : 

For he could coin or counterfeit 

Kew words, with little or no wit ; 

Words so debased and hard, no stone 

Was hard enough to touch them on : 

And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em. 

The ignorant for current took 'em ; 

That had the orator, who once 

Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones 

When he harangued, but known his phrase, 

He would have used no other w^ays. 

Samuel Butler. 



The feast was over, the board was cleared. 
The flawns and the custard had all disappear- 
ed, 
And six little singing-boys — dear little souls ! — 
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, 
Came, in order due, two by two. 
Marching that grand refectory through! 
A nice little boy held a golden ewer. 
Embossed and filled with water as pure 
As any that flows between Kheims and 

IS'amur, 
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch 
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. 
Two nice little boys rather more grown. 
Carried lavender-water and eau de Cologne, 
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap. 
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. 

One little boy more a napkin bore. 
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink. 
And a Cardinal's hat marked in " permanent 
ink." 



THE JACKDA W OF BHEIMS. 

fHE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! 
Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; 
Many a monk and many a friar. 
Many a knight and many a squire. 
With a great many more of lesser degree — 
In sooth a goodly company; 
And they served the Lord Primate on bended 
knee. 
N'ever, I ween, was a prouder seen. 
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams. 
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of 
Rheims I 

In and out through the motley rout. 
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about ; 
Here and there like a dog in a fair. 
Over comfits and cakes, and dishes and 
plates. 
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, 
Mitre and crozier — he hopped on all ! 

With saucy air he perched on the chair 
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat 
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ; 
And he peered in the face of his Lordship's 
grace. 
With a satisfied look, as if he would say, 
" We two are the greatest folks here to-day I" 
And the priests, with awe, as such freaks 

they saw. 
Said, " The devil must be in thatlittle Jack- 
daw I 



The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight 
Of these nice little boys dressed all In white ; 
From his finger he draws his costly tur- 
quoise ; 
And, not thinking at all about little Jack- 
daws, 
Deposits it straight by the side of his plate. 
While the nice little boys on his eminence 

wait ; 
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such 

thing. 
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring ! 



There's a cry and a shout, and a deuce of a 

rout, 
And nobody seems to know what they're 

about. 
But the monks have their pockets aU turned 
inside out. 
The friars are kneeling, and hunting and 

feeling 
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the 

ceiling. 
The Cardinal drew off each plum-colored 

shoe. 
And left his red stockings exposed to the 

view; 
He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the 
heels ; 
They turn up the dishes; they turn up the 
plates, 



POEMS OF WIT AKD HUMOR. m 

They take up the poker and poke out the The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks 

grates, he saw, 

They turn up the rugs— they examine the Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; 

mugs — And turned his bald head as much as to say, 

But no! no such thing — they can't find the "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" 

Ring ! Slower and slower he limped on before. 

And the abbot declared that, when nobody Till they came to the back of the belfry 

twigged it, door, 

Some rascal or other had popped in and prigg- Where the first thing they saw, 'midst the 

ed it! sticks and straw. 

Was the Rlng in the nest of that little Jack- 

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, daw ! 

He called for his candle, his bell and his book; 

In holy anger, and pious grief, ^ rj.^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ j^^^,^ Cardinal called for his 

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief; book 

He cursed him at board, he cursed him in ^j,d off that terrible curse he took ; 

„ , ' , „,.„.. ^, « The mute expression served in lieu of con- 

From the sole of his foot to the crown of fession 

his head ;^ ^ And, being thus coupled with full restitution, 

He cursed him in sleeping, that every night r^.^^ Jackdaw got plenary absolution ; 

He should dream of the devil, and wake in ^y^^^ ^hose words were heard, that poor 

a fright; little bird 

He cursed him m eating, he cursed him m ^y^^ ^^ changed in a moment, 'twas really ab- 

drinkmg; ^^^^. 

He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, jje grew sleek and fat; in addition to that, 

m winking ; ^ fj-^gj^ ^j.^^ ^^ feathers came thick as a mat ! 
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in 

lying, 

He cursed him in walking, in riding, in fly- His tail waggled more than ever before ; 

ing. But no longer it wagged with an impudent 

He cursed him in living, he cursed him in air, 

dying ! No longer it perched on the Cardinal's chair. 

Never was heard such a terrible curse! He hopped now about with a gait devout ; 

But what gave rise to no little surprise, At matins, at vespers, he never was out ; 

Nobody seemed one penny the worse ! And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, 

He always seemed telling the confessor's 

The day was gone, the night came on, t^ „„^ ^.^ v ^ ^ •* 

mu 1 ^ 4-Z 4^ • 4.U V ^ +M1 Ii ^ny one lied, or if any one swore, 

The monks and the friars they searched till r^^ ^i i. ^ • "l- ^ -u j j. 

^ . Or slumbered m prayer-time and happened to 

' snore 

When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, rn + „ ^ t i ^ i^ • 

r, T • ^^L^ ^ t i ^ 1 That good Jackdaw would give a great 

Come limping a poor, little, lame Jackdaw ! u f?? , 

No longer gay, as on yesterday ; ^ , ^^ ^ ' ,, ^ ,„ 

His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong ^® "^^^^ ^^ ^^ ^^^' ^^^ ^ ^^ ^^ ^""^ °^^^® • 

way; 

His pinions drooped — he could hardly stand — While many remarked, as his manners they 

His head was as bald as the palm of your saw, 

hand ; That they never had known such a pious Jack- 

His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, daw ! 

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried. He long lived the pride of that country- 

" That's Him ! side, 

That's the scamp that has done this scandal- And at last in the odour of sanctity died; 

ous thing ! When as words were too faint his merits to 

That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardin- paint, 

al's ring! " ' The conclave determined to make him a saint; 



704 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



And on newly made saints and popes as you 
know, 

It's the custom, at Rome, new names to be- 
stow ; 

So they canonized him by the name of Jim 
Crow ! 

R. H. Baeham. 

C Thomas lugoldsby.") - 




So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow." 



Unharm'd the sin which earth pollutes 

He passed securely o'er, 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune's frown. 

He wore a double-breasted vest, 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert, 
He had no malice in his mind, 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse, 

Was sociable and gay. 
He wore large buckles on his shoes, 

And changed them every day. 



=- His knowledge hid from public gaze 
He did not bring to view. 
Nor make a noise town-meeting days. 
As many people do. 



OLD GRIMES IS DEAD. 

§LD Grimes is dead, that good old man. 
We ne'er shall see him more ; 
He used to wear a long black coat. 
All buttoned down before. 

His heart was open as the day. 

His feelings all were true ; 
His hair it was inclined to gray. 

He wore it in a queue. 

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain 

His breast with pity burned, 
The large round head upon his cane 

From ivory was turned. 

Kind words he ever had for all. 

He knew no base design, 
His eyes were dark and rather small, 

His nose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind. 

In friendship he was true ; 
His coat had pocket-holes behind. 

His pantaloons were blue. 



His worldly goods he never threw 

In trust to fortune's chances, 
He lived (as all his brothers do) 

In easy circumstances. 

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares 

His peaceful moments ran, 
And everybody said he was 

A fine old gentleman. 

Albert Gorton Greene. 



THE VICTIM OF FBA UDS. 

(Written while U. S. Consul at Glasgow, in reply to a 
warniug against one Fowler, who had cheated the Consul 
at Bristol.) 

'M acquainted with affliction, chiefly in the 
form of fiction, as it's offered up by 
strangers at the Consul's open door: 
I know all kinds of sorrow that relief 
would try to borrow with various sums, 
from sixpence upwards to a penny morel 



And 



And I think I know all fancy styles of active 
mendicancy, from the helpless Irish sol- 
dier who mixed in our country's war, 

And who laid in Libby prison in a war that 
wasn't his'n, and I sent back to the 
country — that he never saw before. 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



705 




I know the wretched seaman who was tortur- 
ed by a demon captain till he fled in 
terror with his wages in arrear ; 

And I've given him sufficient to ship as an 
efficient and active malefactor with a 
gentle privateer. 

Oh, I know the wealthy tourist who (through 
accident the surest) lost his letters, 
watch and chain from the cold deck 
coming o'er ; 

And I heeded that preamble, and lent him 
enough to gamble till he won back all 
his money on a " cold deck " here 
ashore I 



I have tickets bought for mothers and their 
babies — that were another's — and their 
husbands — who not always could be 
claimed as theirs alone, 

Till I've come to the conclusion that for eth- 
ical confusion and immoral contribution 
I have little left unknown ! 

But I never, never, never! in beneficent en- 
deavor, fell into the wicked meshes by 
the Saxon Fowler spread ; 

And it seems to me a pistol used judiciously 
at Bristol would have not too prema- 
turely brought this matter to a head ! 
(Francis) Bret Harte. 



706 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



TEE PARADISE OF PROGRESS. 

THE WAIL OF THE TOET OF THE FUTURE. 

N" old Anno Domini 

(Vanished hath the ancient style), 
Men could look upon the sky, 

If the earth were wholly vile, 
Now — alas " the heavy change I" — 

All our star-gazing is done ; 
Terrible machines and strange, 

Glide between us and the sun ! 

Land laws — once they left us when 

Our democracy was new — 
Gayly they came back again, 

Came the sea laws, air laws too ! 
" Fined for trespassing on brine," 

Every day we note it less. 
" Killed when bathing on the line 

Of a submarine express!" 

In old Anno Domini, 

In the happy days grown dim. 
Men could sail upon the seas 

At their pleasure — dive or swim. 
On the sands the children played ; 

Now the sand, they tell us, fails; 
There's a tax on every spade, 

Stringent rules concerning pails! 

In old Anno Domini 

Men were simple, merry, kind. 
Never struggled for the sea. 

Never quarreled for the wind. 
Earth hath been a peaceful place! 

Free from folly, free from jars 
Were the simple early race 

That could look upon the stars! 

Andrew Lang. 



And (must it then be told?) when youth had 
quite gone by. 

Alas ! and I have not 

The pleasant hour forgot. 
When one pert lady said ; 

" O, Landor, I am quite 

Bewildered with affright! 
I see (sit quiet, now), a white hair on your 
head! 

Another, more benign, 

Drew out that hair of mine, 
And in her own dark hair 

Pretended she had found 

That one, and twirled it round. 
Fair as she was, she never was so fair. 

Walter Savage Landor. 




THE O.YE GRAY HAIR. 

fHE wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies, 
And love to hear them told ; 

Doubt not that Solomon 
Listened to many a one. 
Some in his vouth, and more when he grew 
old. 

I never sat among 
The choir of wisdom's song, 
But pretty lies loved I 

As much as any king, 

When youth was on the wing, 



Walter Savage Landor. 



*l 



THE PILGRIMS AJfD THE PEAS. 
TiT BRACE of sinners, for no good, 
Jm. Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's 

(Shrine, 
Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood, ' 
And in a curled white wig looked wondrous 

fine. 

Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel, 
With something in their shoes much worse 
than gravel ; 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



707 



In short, their toes, so gentle to amuse, 
The priest had ordered peas into their shoes, 

A nostrum famohs in old popish times 
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes, 

A sort of apostolic salt. 

That popish parsons for its powers exalt, 
For keeping souls of sinners sweet, 
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat. 

The knaves set off on the same day. 
Peas in their shoes to go and pray ; 

But very different was their speed, I wot. 
One of the sinners galloped on. 
Light as bullet from a gun ; 

The other limped as if he had been shot. 
One saw the virgin, soon peccavi cried ; 

Had his soul whitewashed all so clever ; 
When home again he nimbly hied. 

Made fit with saints above to live forever. 

In coming back, however, let me say. 
He met his brother rogue about half-way. 
Hobbling with outstretched hands and bend- 
ing knees. 
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas ; 
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in 

sweat. 
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet. 

"How now!" the light-toed, whitewashed 
pilgrim broke, 

"You lazy lubber!" 
" Confound it!" cried the t'other, "tisno joke; 
My feet, once hard as any rock. 

Are now as soft as blubber. 

" Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear ; 
As for Loretto, I shall not get there ; 
No I to the Devil my sinful soul must go. 
For hang me if I ha'n't lost every toe ! 

" But brother sinner, do explain 
How 'tis that you're not in pain — 
What power hath worked a wonder for 
your toes — 
Whilst I, just like a snail am crawling, 
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawl- 
ing, 
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes ? 

" How is't that you can like a grayhound go, 
Merry as if naught had happened burn ye ?" 
"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must 

know 
That just before I ventured on my journey, 



To walk a little more at ease, 
I took the liberty to boil my peas." 

John Wolcot. 

("Peter Pindar.") 



I'M GBOWIJYG OLD. 

^^ Y days pass pleasantly away ; 



^/^x My nights are blest with sweetest sleep ; 
I feel no symptoms of decay; 

I have no cause to mourn or weep ; 
My foes are impotent and shy ; 

My friends are neither false nor cold ; 
And yet, of late, I often sigh, 
I'm growing old ! 

My growing talk of olden times. 
My growing thirst for early news. 

My growing apathy to rhymes. 
My growing love of easy shoes, 

My growing hate of crowds and noise, 
My growing fear of taking cold, 

All whisper, in the plainest voice, 
I'm growing old ! 

I'm growing fonder of my staff; 

I'm growing dimmer in the eyes ; 
I'm growing fainter in my laugh ; 

I'm growing deeper in my sighs ; 
I'm growing careless of my dress ; 

I'm growing frugal of my gold ; 
I'm growing wise ; I'm growing — yes, 
I'm growing old 1 

I see it in my changing dress ; 

I see it in my changing hair ; 
I see it in my growing waist ; 

I see it in my growing hair ; 
A thousand signs proclaim the truth. 

As plain as truth was ever told, 
That even in my vaunted youth, 
I'm growing old ! 

Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 

The tale in my reluctant ears, 
And every boon the Hours bequeath 

But makes me debtor to the Years; 
E'en Flattery's honeyed Avords declare 

The secret she would fain withhold, 
And tells me in "How young you are !" 
I'm growing old ! 

Thanks for the years ! whose rapid flight 
My somber muse too sadly sings ; 

Thanks for the gleams of golden light 
That tint the darkness of their wings ; 



m- 



708 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



The light that beams from out the sky, 

Those heavenly mansions to unfold 
Where all are blest, and none may sigh, 
"I'm growing old !" 

John Godfrey Saxe. 




John Godfrey Saxe. 



WHAT MB. BOBIJVSOJV THIJVKS. 

tUVEXER B. is a sensible man ; 
He stays to his home an' looks arter his 
folks ; 
He draws his furrer as straight ez he can, 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

My! ain't it terrible! wut shall w^e du? 
We can't never choose him o' course — thet's 
flat; 
Guess we shall hev to come round, don't you. 
An' go in fer thunder an' guns an' all that ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

Gineral C. is a drefful smart man, 
He's ben on all sides that give places or 
pelf; 
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan : 



He's ben true to one party, an' thet is him- 
self; 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war ; 

He don't vally principle more'n an old cud ; 
What did God make us raytional creeturs fer, 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder and 
blood? 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our vil- 
lage. 
With good old idees of wut's right an' wut 
aint; 
We kinder thought Christ went agin war and 
pillage. 
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of 
a saint ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded 
idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be took, 
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our 
country ; 
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per con- 
try; 
An' John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argiments lies; 
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, 
faw, fum ; 
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 

Sez it aint no sech thing ; an' of course, 
so must we. 

Parson Wilbur sez he never heard in his life 
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in the swaller- 
tail coats. 
And marched round in front of a drum an' a 
fife, 
To get some on 'em office, an' some on 'em 
votes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



709 




^ilbie^^^Ai^ 



I 



Sez they didn't know everythin' down 
in Judee. 

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us 
The rights an' the wrongs of these matters, I 
vow; 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise 
fellers. 



To start the world's team wen it gits in a 
slough ; 
FerJohnP. 
Eobinson he 

Sez the world'U go right, ef he hollers 
out " Gee V 

James Russell Lowell. 

("Hosea Biglow.") 



THE SEA. 
^HE was rich and of high degree ; So he painted the sea as it looked that day 

i) A poor and unknown artist he. That Aphrodite arose from its spray ; 

Paint me, " she said, "A view of the And it broke, as she gazed on its surface the 
sea." while, 



710 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



Into its countless-dimpled smile. 

" What a poky, stupid picture," said she ; 

"• I don't believe he can paint the sea." 

Then he painted a raging, tossing sea. 
Storming with fierce and sudden shock, 

Wild cries and writhing tongues of foam, 
A towering, mighty fastness-rock ; 

In its sides, above those leaping crests. 

The thronging sea-birds built their nests. 

" What a disagreeable daub I" said she ; 

" Why, it isn't anything like the sea." 

Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand. 
With a big hotel on either hand, 
And a handsome pavilion for the band ; 
Not a sign of the water to be seen, 
Except one faint little streak of green. 
"What a perfectly exquisite picture," said 

she; 
"It's the very image of the sea!" 

Anoxymous. 



FLAIK LANGUAGE FROM 
TB UTHFUL JAMES. 

WHICH I w^ish to remark— 
And my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark. 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar; 
Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin was his name. 

And I shall not deny 
In regard to the same 

What that name might imply ? 
But his smile it w'as pensive and childlike, 

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third, 

And quite soft were the skies ; 
Which it might be inferred 

That Ah Sin was likewise ; 
Yet he played it that day upon William 

And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand; 
It was euchre ; the same 

He did not understand ; 
But he smiled as he sat at the table 

With the smile that was childlike and bland. 

Yet the cards they were stocked 
In a way that I grieve, 



And my feelings were shocked 

At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 

And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee, 
And the points that he made, 

Were quite frightful to see. 
Till at last he put down a right bower. 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 

And he gazed upon me, 
And he rose with a sigh 

And said: " Can this be? 
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor!" 

And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 

I did not take a hand. 
But the floor it was strewed 

Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding 

In the game he did not understand. 

In his sleeves, which were long. 

He had twenty-four packs. 
Which was coming it strong, 

Yet I state but the facts ; 
And we found on his nails, which were taper. 

What is frequent in tapers — that's wax. 

Which is why I remark — 

And my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark. 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar ; 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 

(Francis) Bret Harte. 



THE CUBE'S PROGRESS. 
^ ONSIEUR XhQ Cure down the street 
\fS\. Comes with his kind old face, — 
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling 
hair. 
And his green umbrella case. 

You may see him pass by the little " Grande 
Place,'" 

And the tiny ''Hotel de Ville ;" 
He smiles as he goes to thefleuriste Rose^ 

And thepompiei' Theophile. 



POEMS OF WIT Al^B HUMOR. 



71] 



He turns, as a rule, through the " Marche^^ 
cool, 
"VMiere the noisy fishwives call ; 
And his compliment pays to the " belle The- 
rese" 
As she knits in her dusky stall. 

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's 
shop. 

And Toto, the locksmith's niece. 
Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes 

In his tails for a pam dfepice. 

There's a little dispute with a merchant of 
fruit 
Who is said to be heterodox, 
That will ended be with a " Mafoi, oui /" 
And a pinch from the Cure's box. 

There is also a word that no one heard 

To the furrier's daughter Lou : 
And a pale cheek fed with flickering red, 

And ^^Bon Dieu garde IPsieu /" 



With his coat worn bare, and his straggling 

hair, 
And his green umbrella case. 

Austin Dobson. 




AuSTESr DOBSOK. 

' But a grander way for the Sous Prefet^ 
And a bow for Ma'am 'selle Anne ; 
And a mock " off hat" to the Notary's cat. 
And a nod to the Sacristan. 

Forever through life the Cure goes 
With a smile on his kind old face — 



TRU BIRTH OF ST. PATRICK. 

§]Sr the eighth day of March it was, some 
people say. 
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw 

the day ; 
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was 

born, 
And it 'twas all a mistake between midnight 

and morn ; 
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock. 
And some blamed the baby — and some blamed 

the clock — 
Till with all their cross-questions sure no one 

could know 
If the child was too fast, or the clock was too 

slow. 

N'ow the first faction-fight in owld Ireland, 
they say, 

Was all on account of St. Pathrick's birthday: 

Some fought for the eighth — for the ninth 
more would die, 

And who wouldn't see right, sure they black- 
en 'd his eye ! 

At last both the factions so positive grew, 

That each kept a birthday; so Pat then had 
two, 

Till father Mulcahy, who show'd them their 
sins, 

Said, " ISTo one could have two birthdays but 
a twins." 

Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or 

for nine. 
Don't be always dividin' — but sometimes 

combine ; 
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the 

mark. 
So let that be his birthday," — " Amen," says 

the clerk. 
" If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will 

show 
That, at least, he's worthy any two saints that 

we know !" 
Then they all got blind dhrunk — which com- 
pleted their bliss, 
And we keep up the practice from that day to 

this. Samuel Lovek. 



712 



POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. 



A LITERARY CURIOSITY. 

(The number of the line indicates the name of the auth- 
or, as found in the key at the end.) 

^/'HY all this toil for triumphs of an 
hour ? 

2. Life's a short summer, man's a flower. 

3. By turns we catch the vital breath and die; 

4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh. 

5. To be is better ftir than not to be, 

6. Though all men's lives may seem a tragedy ; 

7. But light cares speak when mighty griefs 

are dumb ; 

8. The bottom is but shallow whence they 

come. 

9. Your fate is but the common fate of all ; 

10. Unmingled joys here no man can befall. 

11. Nature to each allots its proper sphere ; 

12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care. 

13. Custom does often reason overrule, 

14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. 

15. Live well ; how long or short, permit to 

Heaven ; 

16. They who forgive most shall be most for- 

given. 

17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see 

its face — 

18. Yile intercourse where virtue has no place. 

19. Then keep each passion down, however 

dear, 

20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 

21. Her sensual snares let faithless pleasure 

lay, 

22. With craft and skill to ruin and betray. 

23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise, 

24. We masters grow of all that we despise. 



25. Oh, then renounce that impious self-es- 

teem ! 

26. Eiches have wings, and grandeur is a 

dream. 

27. Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave; 

28. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

29. What is ambition?. 'Tis a glorious cheat — 

30. Only destructive to the brave and great. 

31. What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown? 

32. The way of bliss lies not on beds of 

down. 

33. How long we live, not years, but actions, 

tell— 

34. That man lives twice who lives the first 

life well. 

35. Make then, while yet we may, your God 

your friend, 

36. Whom Christians worship, yet not com- 

prehend. 

37. The trust that's given guard, and to your- 

self be just, 

38. For live we how we can, die we must. 

1, Young; 2, Dr. Johnson; 3, Pope; 4, 
Prior; 5, Sewell; 6, Spenser; 7, Daniel; 8, 
Sir Walter Scott ; 9. Longfellow ; 10, South- 
well ; 11, Congreve ; 12, Churchill ; 13, Roch- 
ester; 14, Armstrong; 15, Milton; 16, Bailey; 
17, Trench ; 18, Somerville ; 19, Thompson ; 
20, Byron ; 21, Smollett ; 22, Crabbe ; 23, Mas- 
singer; 24, Cowley; 25, Beattie; 26, Cowper; 
27, Sir Walter Davenant; 28, Gray; 29, Wil- 
lis ; 30, Addison ; 31, Dryden ; 32, Francis 
Charles; 33, Watkins; 34, Herrick; 35, Wil- 
liam Mason ; 36, Pill; 37, Dana; 38, Shaks- 
pere. 




X-:^'-^ 




A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink 123 

Ababy was sleeping 134 

A beautiful and happy girl 545 

A beggar sat at the king's gate 41 

Abide with me! fast falls the even -tide 221 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 234 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting. ..437 

A brace of sinners, for no good 706 

A camp of blue, a camp of gray 467 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun 376 

A cloud passed kindly overhead 158 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 176 

A fearless shape of brave device 369 

A fool, a fool ! — I met a fool i' the forest 579 

Againlsit within the mansion 104 

Against the wooded hills it stands 510 

A good man was ther of religioun 422 

Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn 423 

Ah! my heart is weary waiting 322 

Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded 

days r 140 

Ah, thine is not the woe of love forlorn 55 

Ah! 'tis like a tale of olden time 177 

Ah, yes, that "drop of human blood" 557 

A little in the doorway sitting 126 

A little way — I know it is not far 250 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole 609 

Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning 193 

" All hail !" the bells of Christmas rang 211 

Allhail ! thou noble land 477 

All June I bound the rose in sheaves 137 

All places that the eye of heaven visits 530 

" All quiet along the Potomac," they say 99 

All the world's a stage ". 597 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights 197 

All yesterday I was spinning 45 

A lovely sky, a cloudless sun 494 

Although I'enter not 186 

And now comes Autumn — artist bold and free 306 
And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed 681 
And thou hast walked about — how strange a 

story! .7 692 

And what is so rare as a day in June? 320 

And what's a life? A weary pilgrimage 607 

And what's her history? 149 

"An unknown man, respectably dressed 112 

A piercing eye, a princely air 458 

Art is the child of Nature; yes 527 

As bjr the shore, at break of day ...,m,.„275 



A sensitive plant in the garden grew 334 

Ask me no more. The moon may draw the sea 36 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows 184 

Asongof long ago 71 

As rising from the vegetable world 316 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 156 

As snowdrops come to a wintry world 180 

As through the land at eve we went 63 

As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce 311 

A sunny land, soft air, and dreamful ease 381 

As when a lady, walking Flora's bower 185 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever 548 

A thought lay like a flower upon mine heart 526 

At last one night it chanced 118 

At midnight, in his guarded tent 264 

A traveler through a dusty road 574 

At summer eve, when heaven's ethereal bow 548 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Eng- 
land's praise 257 

Awake, ^olian Lyre, awake 636 

A wakeful night with stealthy tread 123 

A weaver sat one day at his loom 604 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea 363 

A whisper broke the air 580 

Ay, this is freedom ! These pure skies 419 

Backward, turn backward, O Time in vour 

flight 1 51 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 179 

Beauty still walketh on the earth and air 541 

Befelle that in that season on a day 43i 

Before I trust my fate to thee 168 

Before the beginning of 3'ears 590 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 177 

Belshazzar is king! Belshazzar is'^lord ! 259 

Be merry, man, andtak not sair in mind 581 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold ...673 

Beneath aerial cliflTs and glittering snows 477 

Beneath the midnight moon of May 116 

Better to smell the violet cool than sip the 

glowing wine 600 

Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer 551 

Bird of the wilderness 351 

Birds are singing round my window 542 

Birds of a feather flock together. 680 

Bland as the morning breath of June 322 

Blessings on thee, little man 57 

Blossom of the almond trees 338 

Blossoms found , „..,., ...Back Fly j-eaf 



714 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Blow, blow, thou winter wind 73 

Bluebird! on j'on leafless tree 349 

Bobolink I tlmt in the meadow 360 

Born in yon blaze of orient sky 320 

Break, break, break 66 

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead 261 

Broad plains, blue waters, hills and valleys 478 

Burly, dozing, humble bee 638 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly 606 

But Enoch yearned to see her face again 53 

But heard are the voices 527 

But still, with honest purpose, toil we on 238 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps 511 

But who the melodies of morn can tell 382 

By Nebo's lonely mountain 225 

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting... .332 

By the moon we sport and play 637 

By this, though deep the eveningfell 281 

Call it not in vain ! they do not err. 559 

Calm on the bosom of thy God 85 

Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 547 

Can'st thou forget, beloved, our first awaking... 139 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night 35 

Celia and I, the other day 176 

Child of the later days! thy words have broken 693 
Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight 348 

Clear and cool, clear and cool 360 

Clear quiet waters, like the pale green sky 510 

Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's 

gleam 420 

Close his eyes; his work is done 462 

Come all ye jolly shepherds 145 

Come into the garden, Maud 166 

Come live with me, and be my love 189 

Could love impart, by nicest art 131 

Come not to my grave with your mournings 95 

Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving 39 

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of 

peace 45 

Come unto these yellow sands 634 

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish ....209 

Confide ye aye in Providence 223 

Cupid and my Campaspe played 187 

Daughter of Jove, relentless power. 50 

Day in melting purple dying 180 

Days dawn on us that make amends for many... 578 
Davstars! that ope your eyes with morn, to 

" twinkle 344 

Delightful is this loveliness; it calms 481 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 79 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove 477 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 231 

Do not praise: a word is payment more than 

meet for what is done ...557 

Down in yon summer vale 299 

Downward the Peri turns her gaze 258 

Down the dimpled greensward dancing 32 

Do you remember how we used to pace 165 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 169 

Earth has not anything to show more fair 503 

Earth, of man the bounteous mother 411 

E'en such is time, that takes on trust 223 



Ensign Epps at the Battle of Flanders 295 

Ethereal Power ! who at the noon of night 633 

Faint amorist, what I dost thou think 176 

Fainting, down on earth he sunk 278 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 346 

Fair dweller by the dusty way 367 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree .339 

Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent 331 

Falsely luxurious, will not man awake 378 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 647 

Fame's but a hollow echo; gold, pure clay 559 

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness 288 

Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour 194 
Farewell! — God knows when we shall meet 

again 74 

Farewell Life ! my senses swim 78 

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean 144 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view 239 

Far up the lonely mountain side 116 

Filled with balm the gale sighs on — 184 

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of 

the farmer 468 

Five years have passed; five summers with the 

length 503 

Flash out a stream of blood red wine 394 

For in this mortal frame 557 

For mine is the lay that lightly floats 394 

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your 

ears 457 

From Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome 347 

From childhood's hour I have not been 40 

From Greenland's icy mountains 244 

From the crowd and the crush of the ball-room 139 
From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood 212 
Frostie age, frostie age ! vain all thy learning ! 680 

Gay, guiltless pair 215 

Gin a bodymeet a body 183 

Give thy thoughts no tongue 580 

God give us men! a time like this demands 412 

God makes such nights all white an' still 682 

God said : "Let there be light! " , 249 

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! 669 

Go, lovely rose 184 

Good name, in man and woman, dear my lord... 530 

Good news or evil, sunshine or shadow 29 

Go sit by thesummer sea 149 

Go, Soul, the body's gnest 573 

Green be the turf above thee 447 

Guvener B. is a sensible man 708 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove 352 

Hail, holy Light! offspring of heaven, first-born.236 

Hail, old patrician trees.so great and good! 345 

Hail the High, the Holy One! 24& 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 359 

Half a league, half a league 295 

Happy the man whose wish and care 606 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 349 

Hark, how the birds dosing 253 

Harness me down with your iron bands 404 

Have you not heard the poets tell 31 

Hear the sledges with the bells 654 

He jests at scars, that never felt a wound 161 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



715 



Hell's gates swing open wide! 373 

Hence, all you vain delights 611 

Hence, loathed melancholy! 535 

Hence, vain deluding joys ! 537 

He passed where Newark's stately tower 418 

Here's the garden she walked across 131 

Her inward worth all outward show transcends.449 

Her light foot on a noble heart she set 169 

Her years steal by like birds through cloudless 

skies 137 

He sailed across the glittering seas that swept 113 

He that loves a rosy cheek 127 

He that of such a height hath built his mind 552 

He wandered o'er the dreary earth 441 

He was in logic a great critic 700 

His courtiers of the caliph crave 252 

His thoughts were song, his life was singing 562 

Hollow is the oak beside 179 

Home they brought her warrior dead 82 

Hope humbly then, with trembling pinions soar.574 

How beautiful this night! the palmiest sigh 388 

How calm, how beautiful comes on 387 

How dear to this heart are the scenesof my child- 
hood 398 

How delicious is the winning 189 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways.,..169 

How happy is he born and taught 543 

How like* a tender mother, with loving thoughts 

beguiled 33 

How many summers, love 198 

How many thousands of my poorest subjects.... 606 

How pleasant the life of a bird must be. 351 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august.. ..592 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 265 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank 394 

How sweet thy modest light to view 154 

How would Willie like to go 679 

I am old and blind 1 85 

I am sitting alone by the fire 146 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers... 376 

I cannot make him dead 100 

I cannot see, with my small human sight 232 

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny 545 

Icicles hang 313 

I come from haunts of coot and hern 481 

If all the world and love were young 189 

I feed a flame within, which so torments me 173 

I feel I'm growing auld, gude-wife 201 

If I desire with pleasant songs 179 

If I had thought thou could'st have died 94 

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone 175 

If I were thou, O Butterfly 532 

If love be dead, and you aver it 135 

If music be the food of love, play on 159 

If nobody's noticed you, you must be small 689 

*' I found a Rome of common clay," imperial 

Csesar cried 505 

If Spring has maids of honor 333 

If Zeus chose us a king of the flowers in his mirth 336 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestere'en 161 

I gathered the gold t had hid in the earth 175 

I had sense in dreams of a Beauty rare..... 394 

I have had playmates, I have had companions... 57 
I know, as my life grows older 237 



I know her, the thing of laces and silk 685 

I know not, love, when first you found me 155 

I know of something sweeter than the chime of 

fairy bells that run 116 

Hike that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 214 

I'll example you with thievery 694 

I loved thee long and dearly 81 

I loved thee once, I'll love no more 182 

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 82 

I love the old melodious lays 525 

I love to hear thine earnest voice 353 

I made a posie while the day ran by 251 

I'm acquainted with aflliction, chie^fly in the form 

of fiction 704 

I'm wearing awa', John 192 

In a long banished age, whose varied story 43 

In eddying course when leaves begin to fly 305 

In eastern lands they talk in flowers 334 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side 513 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes... 329 

In old Anno Domini 706 

In summer time when leaves grow green 674 

In the first rank of these did Zimri stand 455 

In the long sleepless watches of the night 198 

In the lore that is known to our childhood 370 

In this dim world of clouding cares 110 

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls 88 

Into his listening ear the universe 434 

Into the sunshine 365 

In words as fashions, the same rule will hold 550 

I prythee send me back my heart 173 

I read it, my letter, my letter, as I sate in my 

rocky nest ..,141 

I rose anone, and thought I woulde gone 336 

I saw him once before 435 

I saw two clouds at morning .\ 199 

I see, as parcel of a new creation 570 

I shot an arrow into the air .527 

I sing the hymn of the conquered who fell in 

_ the battle of life 80 

Is it the ghost of dead and ruined love 148 

I sometimes feel it half a sin 101 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he 286 

Is she biding where eternal summer smiles upon 

the seas 150 

Is there no secret place on the face of the earth 60 

Is there, when the winds are singing 133 

Is this a temple where a god may dwell 621 

I stood and watched my ships go out 118 

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs 513 

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been 37 

It is an Ancient Mariner 660 

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the 

heart's decaying 444 

It is the Indian summer time 306 

It must be so: Plato, thou reasonest well 567 

It seems a day 496 

It stands in a sunny meadow 192 

It was a lover and his lass 183 

It was many and many a year ago 81 

It was the calm and silent night 209 

It was the nightingale, and not the lark 381 

It was the winter wild 205 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west 165 

Ivy is soft and meek of speech 329 



716 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



I walk down the valley of silence 249 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 347 

I weigh not fortune's frown or smile 551 

I wiltpaint her as I see her 415 

I would not from the wise require 33 

I would not live alway ; I ask not to stay 211 

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Yizier 416 

Jennie kissed me when we met 440 

Jesus, lover of my soul 228 

John Anderson, my jo John 201 

Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows like 
the wave 39 

Keep thy spirit pure 532 

Land of the rare old chronicle 495 

Laugh, and the world laughs with you 603 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 139 

Let's oftener talk of noble deeds 578 

Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy 680 

Life ! I know not what thou art 608 

Life, joy and splendor with the year awake ! 35 

Like a gentle joy descending 365 

Like as tlie damask rose you see 610 

Like prisoned bird Front Cover Lining 

Like the violet which, alone ]33 

Like to the falling of a star 608 

Little Ellie sits alone 33 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 572 

Lochiel ! Lochiel! beware of the day 262 

Long ago in old Granada, when the Moors were 

forced to flee 41 

Long, long ago, in the sweet Koman Spring 447 

Look at nae with thy large,brown eyes 442 

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! 191 

Look where you step, or you'll stumble 571 

Lord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail 679 

Love in my bosom, like a bee 129 

Love is a sickness full of woes 143 

Love! I will tell thee what is to love 127 

Love thy mother, little one ! 128 

Love wakes and weeps, while Beauty sleeps 163 

Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness 175 

Maiden, with the meek, brown eyes.. 42 

Maid of my love. Sweet Genevieve! 194 

"Make me a statue," said the King 231 

"Make way for liberty!" he cried 276 

Maxweltoif braes are bonnie 181 

May, thou month of rosy beauty 319 

Meiik, the Sultan, tired and wan 607 

Men don't believe in a devil now, as their fa- 
thers used to do 689 

Merrily swinging on briar and weed 352 

Merry Margaret 436 

Methinks I love all common things 396 

Methought, that I had broken from the Tower 290 
Mid pleasures and places though we may roam 466 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 338 

Mine e\es have seen the glory of the coming of 

the Lord ......275 

Monsieur the Cure down the street 710 

Morn on the water! and, purple and bright 592 

Music, when soft voices die ,, , 140 



My aunt ! mj' dear unmarried aunt! 683 

My boat is on the shore 441 

My country, 'tis of thee 266 

My days among the dead are passed 612 

My days pass pleasantly away 707 

My dear and only love, I pray 144 

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys 603 

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired 44 

My gentle Puck, come hither; thou remem- 

ber'st 151 

My heart leaps up when I behold 348 

My liege, I did deny no prisoners 428 

My life is like a stroll upon the beach 530 

My life is like the summer rose 608 

My little love, do 3'ou remember 156 

My loved, my honored, much respected friend..216 

My mind to me a kingdom is 555 

My mother had a maid call'd — Barbara 78 

My mother's voice! how often creep ..123 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares 73 

My son, these maxims make a rule 225 

My soul drinks in its future life 439 

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew..391 
My thoughts go home to that old brown house..475 

Naught is there under heaven's wide hollow- 

ness 430 

Nearer, my God, to thee 223 

Nestle closely, little hand 163 

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds 366 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 263 

Not in the swaying of the summer trees 597 

Not only around our infancy ...381 

Not ours the vows of such as plight 202 

Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain 681 

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the 

woods 306 

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray ...227 
Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from wfiom all 

glories are! 283 

Now, in the season of flowers 324 

Now the bright Morning-star, day's harbinger. ..381 

Observe yon plumed biped fine 679 

O don't be sorrowful, darling! 168 

O faint, delicious, spring-time violet! 331 

Of all old women hard of hearing 697 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 233 

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White 181 

Oft in the stilly night 51 

Ofttimes when Even's scarlet flag 528 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green 340 

O happy glow, O sun-bathed tree 130 

O, Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth 433 

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave 267 

Oh, good painter, tell me, true 400 

Oh, had my love ne'er smiled on me 163 

Oh, hear ye not a voice that comes a-singing 

through the trees 304 

Oh ! if no faces were beheld on earth 409 

Oh Mary, go and call the cattle home 92 

Oh, merry, merry, be the day, and bright the 

star of even 130 

Oh say ! can you see, by the dawn's early light. .270 
Oh! snatched away in Wauty's bloom Ill 



IKDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



717 



Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt 72 

Oh, the click of the tj'pe as it falls into line 402 

Oh, there's a power 143 

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow! 71 

Oh, trifling task so often done 576 

Oh, very gloomy is the house of woe 520 

Oh! was it I or was it you 125 

Oh, well these places knew and lov'd us twain! 153 

Old Billy B. was a pious man 696 

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man. 704 

O leave the lily on the stem 135 

O little feet ! that such long years 52 

Olong and lagging hours of time 605 

O majestic Night! 384 

Once more, my harp, once more ! although I 

thought '. 453 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once 

more 291 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands 467 

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, 

weak and weary 656 

One more unfortunate 108 

One morning when spring was in her teens 689 

One sweetly solemn thought 230 

One wo doth tread upon another's heel Ill 

O Night of death, O Night that bringestall 113 

On softening days, when a storm was near 397 

On that deep retiring shore 117 

On the eighth day of March it was, some people 



say. 



.711 



On what foundation stands the warrior's pride. ..459 

O, pardon me, thou piece of bleeding earth 458 

O reader, hast thou ever stood to see 340 

O there is still within this world 124 

O Thou Eternal One! whose presence bright., ..246 

Our good steeds snuff the evening air 275 

Out of the city,far away 321 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 46 

Out to the west the spent day kisses night 387 

Over hill, over dale 646 

O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! 555 

O what a pure and sacred thing 402 

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year 309 

O woman ! In our hours of ease 129 

"0, World God, give me wealth!" the Egyp- 
tian cried 1^ 603 

Oye dales of Tyne 465 

0, young Lochinvar is come out of the west 171 

Pack clouds awaj^, and welcome day 187 

Parting with friends is temporary (5eath 104 

Pass on ! and leave me standing liere alone 78 

Peace! let the long procession come 461 

Peri and Pixy, and quaint Pucktlie Antic 644 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray 30 

Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me.' 480 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 245 

Pushing the clods of earth aside 327 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair 647 

Remote, unfriended, melanchol}', slow 507 

Ring out, O bells, ring silver-sweet o'er hill and 
moor and fell ! ; 88 



River, sparkling river, I have fault to find with 

thee 55 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me 214 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean— roll! 368 
Ruin seize thee, ruthless king 267 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 260 

See, how the orient dew 342 

See the chariot at hand here of love 187 

Serene I fold my hands and wait 151 

She came as comes the summer wind 172 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 83 

She gazed upon the burnished brace 683 

She has just put her gown on at Girton 683 

She is not fair to outward view 167 

She stood breast-high amid the corn 172 

She walks in beauty, like the night 150 

She was a phantom of delight 440 

She was rich and of high degree 709 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more 188 

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice 433 

Sitting under the birch trees, in the beautiful 

April day 47 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine 55 

Sleep on, baby, on the floor 59 

Sleep on — sleep on — above thy corse 98 

So beautiful the day had been 329 

So forth issew'd the seasons of theyeare 300 

Softly woo away her breath 103 

Soft pity never leaves the gentle breast 150 

So he entered the house, and the hum of the 

wheel and the singing 185 

So justly to 3'our grave ears I'll present 171 

Some blame the years that fly so fast 161 

Somebody thinks the world all wrong 576 

Some fairy spirit with his wand 160 

Some murmur when their sky is clear 85 

Sometime, when all life's lessons have been 

learned 247 

Some years ago, ere time and taste 413 

Some years ago, when I was young , 581 

So now my summer task is ended, Mary 140 

So when of old the Almighty Father sate 214 

Speak low, tread softly through these halls 615 

Speak naught, move not, but listen, the skv is 

full of gold r....371 

St. Agnes' Eve! Ah, bitter chill it was! 649 

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray 311 

Still on the spot Lord Marmion staid 279 

Still to be neat, still to be dressed 164 

Sunlight and shade, rich gold that dulls to grey 29 

Sunset is burning like the seal of God !.390 

Sweet and low, sweet and low 130 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain. ...486 
Sweet bird ! that sing'st away the earthl}- hours 351 

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright 246 

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies 336 

Sweet Solitude, thou placid queen 605 

Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly 

train 105 

Sweet warblers of the sunny hours 357 

Take, O take those lips away 156 

Talking of sects till late one eve 243 

Talk not of temples ; there is one 234 



718 



INDEX OF FIRST LIKES. 



Teach me, my God, my King 251 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 36 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. ...623 

Tell mo not in mournful numbers 608 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 187 

Tell me, where is fancy bred 154 

The apples are ripe in the orchard..., 91 

The April sunshine brought Front fly leaf 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the 

fold"' 281 

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne 437 

The bee from the clover blooms 400 

The birds must know. Who wisely sings 559 

The blasts of Autumn drive the winged seeds. ..302 

The bleakest rock uponthe loneliest heath 137 

The blessed damozel leaned out , 645 

The breaking waves dashed high 233 

The bright-robed days sit now at feast, and 

sup 304 

The broken column, reared in air 273 

The budding tloweret blushes at the light 314 

The busy larke, the messenger of day 381 

The caged bird that all the autumn day 85 

The child is father of the man 585 

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces 579 
The cock hath crowed. I hear the doors un- 
barred 327 

The conference meeting through at last 157 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 617 

The cygnet finds the water: but the man 590 

The days of infancy are all a dream 592 

The despot's heel is on thy shore 271 

The farmer sat in his easy chair 407 

The fields were covered over 411 

The flowers are dead that made a summer's 

splendor. 117 

The flowers of thought Back Cover Lining 

The forward violet thus did I chide 154 

The fountains mingle with the river 190 

The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night ....314 

The glories of our blood and state 617 

The groves were God's first temples 497 

The harp at Nature's adventstrung 228 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 277 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept 396 

The island lies nine leagues awa}' 471 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 285 

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! 701 

The lad and lass were forced to part 580 

The lady lay in her bed 48 

The lark has sung his carol in the sk}^ 610 

The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared 292 

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing 393 

The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews 382 

The moonbeams lay upon the hill 393 

The morning hath not lost her virgin blush 383 

The mossy marbles rest 434 

The mother of the muses, we are taught 533 

The muflfled drum's sad roll has boat 277 

The muse, disgusted at an age and clime 466 

Then came faire May, the fairest maid on 

ground 318 

The night has a thousand ej^es 529 

The night is dim with snow-flakes foiling fast. ..125 
The night shall be filled with music , 148 



Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on 

the city 106 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell 290 

Then the king exclaimed, " This is for me" 273 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower 87 

The poet or priest who told us this 601 

The quality of mercy is not strained 530 

The queen, my lord, is dead 618 

The rain, the desolate rain! 375 

There are faces we fondly recall 115 

There are gains for all our losses 39 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould 294 

There are songs enough for the hero 91 

There came to port, last Monday night 678 

There comes, each dying day to bless 384 

Therefore to be possess'd with double pomp 534 

There have been loftier themes than his 443 

There is aland, of every land the pride 465 

There is a soul in earthly things 604 

There is music, there is sunshine 125 

There is no death ! The stars go down 107 

There is no rest! the mills of change 599 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen "....411 

There's many a trouble 580 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover 61 

There's strength in double joints, no doubt 694 

There v/as a house — a house of clay 36 

There were ninety and nine that safely lay 222 

These are the gardens of the desert, these 472 

These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good. .230 

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er 612 

The sea ! the sea ! the open sea! 370 

The shades of night were falling fast 623 

The shadows lay along Broadway 423 

The silent wilderness for me 409 

The sinking sun had streaked the west 561 

The skv is changed! — and such a change! O 

night 363 

The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare 609 

The snow had begun in the gloaming 119 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth 

brings .317 

The spacious firmament on high 248 

The splendor fall on castle walls 385 

The stately homes of England 484 

The summer sun is falling soft on Carberry's 

hundred isles 97 

The summer sun was soft and bland 151 

The sun had gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lo- 
mond ." 129 

The sun is careering in glory and might 349 

The sunrise waits behind Heaven's gates.. 387 

The supper is o'er, the hearth is swept Ill 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain 396 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into my 

brain 468 

The violet loves a sunny bank 196 

The voice which I did more esteem 83 

The warm sun is f{\lling, the bleak wind is wail- 
ing 306 

The whilom hills gray, whose tender shades 325 

The wild November comes at last 309 

The wisest of the wise 706 

The wonders of all-ruling providence 213 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



719 



The world goes up and the world goes down.... 44 
The world is too much with us ; late and 

soon 508 

They are all gone into the world of light 94 

They are jewels of the mind 109 

They come .' the merry summer months of 

beauty, song and flowers .- 322 

They drive home the cows from the pasture 407 

The years come and the years go 583 

The year stood on its equinox." 408 

They made her a grave too cold and damp 195 

They sang of love, and not of fame 159 

They sin^vho tell us love can die 177 

They tell us thou art he, about whose brow 443 

They've got a bran new organ. Sue 699 

Thinks't thou to be concealed, thou little 

stream 613 

This is a spray the bird clung to 137 

This is the ship of pearl, which poets feign 355 

This roval Infant (Heaven still move about 

her) 449 

Thought is deeper than all speech 543 

Thou happy,happy elf! 677 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray 95 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness 528 

Three tishers went sailing out into the west 97 

Throw up the window ! "'Tis a morn for hfe 377 

Thus Adam looked, when from the garden 

driven 681 

Thus passeth year by year, and day by day 439 

Thy check is o' the rose's hue 154 

Tired of play! tired of play 566 

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother 110 

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance 172 

'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark 349 

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night 627 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 73 

To be, or not to be, that is the question 615 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 621 

To him who sang of "Home, sweet home" 441 

To me the world's an open book 381 

Too frail to keep the lofty vow 445 

Too late I stayed; forgive the crime 188 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell 511 

To the seashell's spiral round 529 

Touch us gently, Time! 198 

Tread softly— bow the head 250 

Tread softly through these amorous rooms 508 

Trust not sweet soul, those curled waves of 

gold 612 

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 639 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all 

through the house 647 

'Twas when the world was in its prime 314 

Two armies covered hill and plain 271 

Two dimpled hands the bars of iron grasped.... 43 



Under a spreading chestnut tree 414 

Under my window, under my window 30 

Underneath the sod low-l,ying 94 

Unwarned by any sunset light 312 

Upon the sadness of the sea 525 

Up the airy mountain 642 

Up the dale and down the bourne 324 



" Vanitas vanitatum " has rung in the ears 605 

Yerse, a breeze mid blossoms straying 401 

Violet, sweet viokt! 338 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 238 

Way down upon the Suwannee river 71 

We are born; we laugh; we weep 599 

We are the sweet flowers 333 

We count the broken lyres that rest 611 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower 345 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 365 

Welcome, thrice welcome is thy silvery 

gleam 482 

We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not 

breaths 611 

We may live without poetry, music and 

art 678 

We pledge our hearts, my love and 1 192 

Werther had a love for Charlotte 690 

We scatter seeds with careless hand 227 

We watched her breathing through the night... 88 

We were not many, we who stood 272 

What a change hath passed upon the face 306 

What bird, in beauty, flight, or song 444 

What constitutes a State? 265 

What doth it serve to see sun's burning face 97 

What figure more immovably august 420 

What is the name of King Ringang's daugh- 
ter? .' 138 

What might be done if men were wise 564 

What plant we with this apple tree? 356 

What saith the river to the rushes gray 375 

Whatsoe'er she vowed to-day 165 

What stands upon the highland 391 

What was he doing, the great god Pan 645 

What will not men attempt for sacred praise. ...550 
When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their 

hame 75 

Whence dost thou come to me 642 

When chapman billies leave the street 668 

When daflfodils begin to peer 315 

When Freedom, from her mountain height 269 

When I consider how my hght is spent 223 

When I survey the bright 391 

When last the maple-bud was swelling 90 

When love with uuconfined wings. ...^ 182 

When, marshalled on the nightlyplain 251 

When Music, heavenly maid, was j'oung 634 

When shall we three meet again? 117 

When silent time, wi' lightly foot 593 

When stars are in the quiet "skies 164 

When that my mood is sad, and in the noise 362 

When the dimpled water slippeth 44 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's 

traces 315 

When the humid shadows hover 378 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 

at hame 49 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 137 

When whispering strains with creeping wind. ..396 

When, with his lively ray, the potent sun 317 

When woman loves, and will not show it 153 

Where did you come from, baby dear? 41 

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he 

home! 293 



720 



IKDEX OF FIKST LINES, 



Where the bee sucks, there suck 1 667 

Wherever through the ages rise 229 

Where wind and water meethig made 122 

Which I wish to remark 710 

Whither midst falling dew 355 

Who bides his time, day by day 576 

Who can judge a man from manners 577 

Who can sing us a song of sorrow 561 

AVho hath not paused while Beauty's pensive 

eve 127 

WholsSilvia? What is she 439 

Who'll press for gold this crowded street 624 

Who, looking backward from his manhood's 

prime 569 

Who shall be fairest 541 

Who would himself with shadows entertain 590 

AVhy all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 712 

Whv art thou slow, thou rest of trouble. 

Death 83 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears 342 

Why, Love, my love is a dragon fly 167 

Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall 611 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 173 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 619 

Why, when, I say ? — Nay, good, sweet^Kate, be 

merry 697 



Winged mimic of the Woods! thou motley 

fool 354 

Wisdom loves this seat serene 522 

With all condescension 696 

With deep affection 399 

Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers 187 

With fingers weary and worn T. 76 

With husky-haughty lips, O Sea! 373 

Within the twilight came forth lender snatches..390 

Woodman spare that tree 399 

Woodmen, shepherds, come away 318 

Worthy the patriot's thought and poet's lyre 485 

Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng 433 

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams 684 

Ye distant spires! ye antique towers! 501 

Ye gracious mountain neighbors 471 

Yesterday, darling — only yesterday 163 

Yestermorn the air was dry 331 

Yes, 'tis not helm nor feather 278 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild 515 

You are nobly born, I know 135 

You meaner beauties of the night 452 

Your murmurs bring the pleasant breath 365 

Youth is a vision of a morn 593 





Adams, Sarah Flower. — An English poet, born 
in 1805. Her poem " Nearer, My G-od to Thee," 
which has attained a world-wide popularity, was 
contributed to a Unitarian collection of "Hymns 
and Anthems," published in 1841. Died in 1848. 

Nearer, My God, to Thee 223 

ADDiso?r, Joseph. — An English author, pre-em- 
inent as an essayist, humorist and moralist, and also 
of high rank as a poet, was born in Wiltshire in 
1672. His popularity rests chiefly upon his essays 
contributed to the Spectator. They are models of the 
purest English and have secured to him immortal 
lame. His reputation as a poet is founded upon 
his "Tragedy of Cato" which appeared in 1713. 
He died in London in 1710. 

Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the 
Soul '. 567 

Education 577 

Genealogy of Humor 678 

Akenside, Mark. — An English poet and phy- 
sician, born at Newcastle-on-Tyne in 1721. In 1744 
was pubhshed his "Pleasures of Imagination," 
which at once attained celebrity, and proved him a 
true poet. He died in London in 1770. 

A Scene Recalled 465 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. — An American writer 
born in Portsmouth, N. H., in 1836. Was assistant 
editor of the Home Journal, New York, and also 
of Every Saturday, Boston, as long as it was pub- 
lished — 1870-4. For several years wrote exclusively 
for the Atlantic Monthly, when in March, 1881, he 
became its editor. 

Appreciation 529 

Babie Bell's Coming 31 

Alexander, Mrs. Cecil Frances ( nee Hum- 
phreys). — An English poet, born in Strabane, Ire- 
land, about 1830. In 1850 she was married to Rev. 
Wm. Alexander, afterwards Bishop of Derry. 
Among her " Poems on Old Testament Subjects," 
is the well known "Burial of Moses." 

The Burial of Moses 225 

Allen, Elizabeth Akers. — An American poet, 
born in Strong, Me., 1832. Her maiden name was 
Chase. She married Paul Akers, the sculptor, who 
died in 1861, and in 1865 she married E. M. Allen 
of New York. Began to write for the Atlantic 
Monthly at the age of 15, under the nom de plume 



of "Florence Percy." Among her poems, is the 
popular song, "Rock me to Sleep, Mother." 

Rock me to Sleep, Mother 51 

The City of the Living 43 

Alltngham, William. — A British poet, born at 
Ballyshannon, Ireland, about 1828. His poem, 
"Laurence Bloonifield in Ireland," was well re- 
ceived, and in 1864 he obtained a literary pension. 

^olian Harp 375 

A Holiday 321 

Autumnal Sonnet 306 

The Fairies 642 

Allston, Washington. — An em.inent American 
artist, born at Waccamaw, S. C, in 1779. In ad- 
dition to his genius as a painter, possessed poetic 
talent of high order. He was the author of " The 
Svlphs of "the Seasons, and other Poems," pub- 
lished in 1813. Died 1843. ^ 

America to Great Britain 477 

Boyhood 140 

Arnold, Edwin. — An English poet, born in 
1832. The " Light of Asia," his best known work, 
is a poem on the life and doctrines of Gautama 
Booddha, the supposed founder of the Booddhistic 
religion. As poetry, it is admirable, but, as serv- 
ing to give an idea of the spirit of that religion, it 
cannot be relied upon for accuracy of detail in re- 
gard to the teachings of Gautama. But it is a pleas- 
ing poem, and beautifully written. 

Almond Blossoms 338 

Woman's Voice 597 

Arnold, Matthew. — An English poet, son of 
Dr. Thomas Arnold of Rugbv and Oxford, was born 
at Laleham in Middlesex, in 1822. In 1857, elected 
Professor of Poetry at Oxford. His verse is always 
calm, chaste, and"^noble, and there is, throughout 
his style of thought, a certain antique grandeur, 
differing much from most of the poets of the pres- 
ent day. 

A Question 39 

Culture 534 

Fire and Strength 570 

Sweetness and Light 575 

Ayton, Sir Robert. — An English poet of great 
merit, born in 1570. He was a favorite of both 
James VL and Charles I. Died in 1683. 

On Woman's Inconstancy 182 



722 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



Bacon, Sik Francis (Lord Bacon of Verulam, 
and Viscount St. Alban's). One of the grandest 
names in the annals of England, and one of the 
greatest men ever produced by any country or in 
any age, was born in London, 1561. He was poet, 
philosopher, orator, lawN'er and statesman. As an 
author, his "Essays" are his most popular work, 
while the masterpiece of his matured genius is the 
"Novum Organum Scientiarum," a work on which 
he had labt)red for years. His later life was devo- 
ted to scientific pursuits. Died 1626. 

Prosperity and Adversit}'' 600 

Studies 562 

Bailey, Philip James. — An English poet, born 
at Nottingham, 1816. His "Eestus," published in 
1839, was highly successful. He has since publish- 
ed the " Angel World," the " Mvstic," and the 
"Age." 

A Noble Life 532 

From "Eestus" 611 

Ballantine, James. — A Scottish poet and art- 
ist, born in 1808. Published "One Hundred 
Songs." Died in 1877. 

Its Ain Drap of Dew 223 

Barbauld, Anna Ltetitia. — An English writer, 
sister of Dr. John Aikin, was born 1743. As a 
writer of books for children she is very popular. 
Died in 1824. 

Life 608 

Barham, Kichard Harris. — Better known by 
his literary pseudonym of "Thomas Ingoldsby," 
was born at Canterbury, 1788. Barham was the 
author of the famous "Ingoldsby Legends," a series 
of burlesque poems, which have obtained immense 
popularity. He died in 18^5. 

The jackdaw of Rheims 701 

Barton, Bernard. — A member of the Society 
of Friends, popukrly known as "the Quaker poet," 
born in London, 1784. Died 1849. 

Not Ours the Vows 202 

Beattie, James. — A Scotch poet, born in 1735. 
His principal works are "The Minstrel," and the 
"Essav on Truth." Died in 1803. 

Morning from "The Minstrel" 382 

Benevolence .254 

Beaumont and Fletcher. — Celebrated Eng- 
lish dramatic poets, contemporaries of Shakspere 
and .Jonson. Beaumont was born in 1586, and 
died in 1616, being honored by burial in West- 
minster Abbey, that mausoleum of Britain's great 
men and kings. Fletcher was born in 1576, and 
died in 1625. They formed a literary partnership, 
the result of which was the production of nearly 
fifty plays. In this collaboration, it has been said 
that Beaumont found the quality of fancy and 
Fletcher that of judgment. They were both ad- 
mirable delineators of human nature, and, in their 
lifetime, their dramas were even preferred to those 
of Shakspere, whom they made their model. The 
principal piece of Fletcher's separate writing is a 
dramatic pastoral, entitled "The Faithful Shepherd- 
ess," and there is no doubt that it suggested the idea 
of Milton's " Comus." The works of these authors 
have descended to posterity under the twin title of 



authorship of "Beaumont and Fletcher." 

Invocation to Sleep 89 

Melancholy 611 

Song: Look out, bright eyes, and bless the 

air! 191 

The Influence of Woman 137 

Beers, Mrs. Ethel Lynn. — An American poet, 
born in New York in 1827. Her poem, "The Pick- 
et-Guard," first published in Harper's Weekly in 
1861, became instantly popular. Died 1879. 

The Picket-Guard 99 

Berkeley, George. — An illustrious English met- 
aphysical philosopher, born 1684. He was Dean 
of Deny, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne. His 
works are, bej^ond dispute, the finest models of 
philosophical s"tyle since Cicero. Died at Oxford, 
1753. 

Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arts 

and Learning in America 466 

Blamire, Susanna. — An English poet, born 
1747. She wrote, in the Scottish dialects, a num- 
ber of admired Ivrics. Died 1794. 

The Nabob.." 593 

Blanchard, Laman. — An English journalist 
and litterateur, born 1803. Was associated with 
Bulwer as editor of The New Monthly Magazine in 
1831. Died 1845. 

The Mother's Hope 133 

Boies, Laura A. 

Little Children 125 

ThePvain 365 

BoKER, George Henry. — An American poet, 
born at Pliiladelphia, 1824. As a dramatist he has 
been successful. He was American Minister to Con- 
stantinople from 1871 to 1877. 

Dirge for a Soldier ._ 462 

Boswell, James. — A Scottish gentleman, born 
at Edinburgh, 1740. A man of no decided talent, he 
has made himself famous as the author of one of 
the completest biographies in the language : "The 
Life of Dr. Johnson." He was an intimate friend of 
Johnson, and during the whole course of their 
friendship was collecting materials for his great 
work, which therefore contains stores of minute 
and accurate information. Died 1796. 

Desire of Knowledge 560 

" The Vicar of Wakefield " 431 

BoTTA, Anna C. — An American poet, born in 
Vermont. In 1855 she married Vincenzo Botta, an 
Italian statesman. Died 1870. 

On a Library 515 

Bourdillon, Francis W. — An English poet, 
born 1852, whose reputation was made, while yet 
an undergraduate at Oxford, by a short poem, en- 
titled " Light," which has been translated into the 
principal European languages. 

Light 529 

Bowles, William Lisle. — An eminent Eng- 
glish clergyman and writer, born in 1762. His 
poems were admired bv Coleridge, Wordsworth, 
and Southey. Died 1850. 

South American Scenery 477 

Brainard, John G. C. — An American poet, born 



A 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



723 



in Connecticut, 1796, Edited the Connecticut Mir- 
ror for about six years. Died 1828. 

Epithalamium 199 

Niagara 468 

Brooks, Maria Gowan. — An American poet, 
born in Massachusetts, 1795. Her principal work 
is " Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven," which was 
highly praised by Southey. She visited Southey 
at Keswick in 1831. Died at Matanzas, 1845. 

Song of Egla 180 

Brown, Frances. — A blind Irish poet, born 
about 1816. In 1844 she published "The Star of 
Atteghei " and other poems, which were received 
with favor. 

Woodland Streams 365 

Browtst, Bolaxd. 

Love Letters 180 

Brown, William Goldsmith. — An American 
editor, teacher, and poet, born in 1812. His short 
poem "A Hundred Years to Come," has enjoyed a 
wide popularity. 

A Hundred Years to Come 624 

Browne, Matthew. 

Suggestion 580 

Browtste, Sir Thomas. — An English physician 
and author, born in London in 1605. In 1642 he 
published his famous book, "Religio Medici." He 
was knighted by Charles II. in 1671. Died in 1682. 
His life has been written by Dr. Johnson. 

Habit 254 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. — An English 
poet, born in 1807. The greatest woman poet of Eng- 
land or of modern times. AVas the daughter of Mr. 
Barrett, an opulent merchant of London. Began 
to write verse at the age of ten, and gave early 
proofs of poetical genius. Her most extensive work 
is " Aurora Leigh," a poem, or novel in verse, 
which is greatly admired. In 1846 she was married 
to the poet Browning, with whom she resided in 
Italy, until her death in 1861. 

"a Musical Instrument 645 

A Portrait 415 

Cowper's Grave 444 

From "The Sword of Castruccio Castru- 

cani" 273 

How Do I Love Thee? 169 

Intuitions 590 

Pain in Pleasure 526 

Romance of the Swan's Nest 33 

Sleeping and Watching 59 

Song of the Eose (Translation) 336 

The Sleep 233 

Wisdom Unapplied 532 

Browning, Robert. — An English poet, born in 
1812. Produced in 1835 his first poem, entitled 
"Paracelsus," which attracted much attention by 
its originality and subtlety of thought. His trage- 
dies and dramatic lyrics are included in the collec- 
tion of his works, entitled "Bells and Pomegranates." 
In 1846 married the poet Miss Elizabeth Barrett. 
Browning is one of the most cultivated of poets but 
is not popular with the masses. 

All June I Bound the Rose in Sheaves 137 

Evelyn Hope 179 



How They Brought the Good News from 

Ghent to Aix 286 

The Flower's Name 131 

This is the Spray the Bird Clung To 137 

Bryant, William Cullen. — An eminent Ameri- 
can poet and man of letters, born in Massachu- 
setts, 1794. He wrote poems when he was but 10 
years old. "Thanatopsis," the unrivalled production 
of a youth of only 18 years old, was published by 
him in the North American Review, in 1816. The 
first outbreak of Bryant's genius was the most rich 
and abundant. Since then he has published only 
short poems and at considerable intervals. From 
1826 until his death, which occurred in New York 
in 1878, he held the position of editor of the Bew 
York Evening Post. 

A Forest Hvmn 497 

From "The'Planting of the Apple Tree". ..356 

Robert of Lincoln 352 

Thanatopsis 621 

The Battle-Field 467 

The Prairie Hunter 419 

The Prairies 472 

The Snow Shower 311 

To a Waterfowl 355 

Brydges, Sir Egerton. — An English writer, 
born in 1762. Was a prolific writer of sonnets, 
novels, essays, letters, etc. Died near Geneva, 1837. 

Echo and Silence 305 

Buchanan, Robert. — A Scottish poet, and mis- 
cellaneous writer, born 1841, and educated at Glas- 
gow University. Buchanan is a poet of considera- 
ble merit. 

Autumn in the Highlands 492 

Bulwer, Edward George, Lord Lytton. — 
A distinguished British novelist, born in 1803. 
Among his works are "Pelham," "Paul Clifford," 
"The Last Days of Pompeii," "Rienzi, the Last of 
the Tribunes," "Zanoni," and "Kenelm Chilling- 
ly." Perhaps, after Scott, Bulwer is the most uni- 
versally popular of all the British novelists. He 
also possesses superior poetical power. Bulwer was 
made a baronet in 1838. Having, on his mother's 
death in 1844, come into the possession of the Kneb- 
worth estates, he assumed, in compliance with the 
conditions of the will, the name of Bulwer-Lytton. 
Was raised to the peerage as Baron Lytton, in 
1866. Died 1873. 

Hollow is the Oak Beside 179 

Love of Nature in the Decline of Life 299 

Power and Genius 533 

There is No Death 107 

When Stars Are in the Quiet Skies 164 

BuRBiDGE, Thomas. — An English poet, born 
1817. Was the friend and schoolmate of Arthur 
Hugh Clough, and published with him a volume of 
poems entitled " Ambarvalia," in 1849. 

A Mother's Love 126 

If I Desire with Pleasant Songs 179 

Burns, Robert. — The national poet of Scotland, 
born in Ayrshire, in 1759. His father being a poor 
farmer, the son could receive but a scanty education, 
and his youth was passed in working at the plow, 
and his spare hours, writing scraps of verse. His 



724 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



innate spirit of poetrj^ fostered by a perusal of the 
writings of Pope, soon developed itself into an ac- 
tive and powerful life. His "Poems" appeared in 
1786, and made him at once famous, the "Cotter's 
Saturday Niajht" alone being sufficient to stamp 
him a poet of the truest and best class. Died 1796. 

Address to the Unco Guid 225 

Auld Rob Morris 411 

Bruce's Address 260 

Farewell to Nancy 176 

John Anderson 201 

TamO'Shanter 668 

The Blue-Eyed Lassie 161 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 216 

To a Mountain Daisy 345 

To Marv ia Heaven. 95 

Youth.-. 593 

Burton, Hexry. — An English theologian and 
Dissenter, born in 1579. Died 1648. 

The Ivy 827 

Butler, Samuel. — An English poet, author of 
"Hudibras," born 1612. He had only a scanty edu- 
cation in his 3'outh, but afterwards cultivated his 
mind by study and reading. His poem was intend- 
ed to throw ridicule on the Presbyterian and Inde- 
pendent parties. Though sparkling with wit, the 
poem is now little read, and is probably seldom ob- 
tainable. Butler died at London in 1680. 

The Learning of Hudibras 700 

Byrd, William. — An eminent English composer 
of church music, born about 1540. Was a pupil of 
Thomas Tallis, and became conjointly with him or- 
ganist to Queen Elizabeth in 1575. Died 1623. 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is 555 

Byrox, George GoRDOisr, Lord. — One of the 
greatest of modern poets, was born in 1788. His 
father's name was John Byron. His mother was 
Catharine Gordon of Gight. In 1798 by the death 
of his grand-uncle, he became a lord, and owner of 
Newstead Abbc}', in Nottinghamshire. His wonder- 
ful poetic genius was brought to light by the pub- 
lication of "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" 
which was the reply to a severe criticism passed up- 
on his " Hours of Idleness" by an Edinburgh re- 
viewer. His greatest work is "Childe Harold's Pil- 
grimage." Has written many other works. They 
are all tainted with a morbid melancholy and mis- 
anthropy, but yet contain passages of the most ex- 
quisite beauty. Died in Greece, 1824. 

Apostro|3he to the Ocean 368 

A Spanish Bull-Fight 292 

Modern Greece 515 

Oh, Snatched Awayin Beauty's Bloom Ill 

On a Skull 621 

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth 

Year 73 

She walks in Beauty 150 

Solitude .- 511 

Song of the Greek Poet. 285 

Storm at Night 363 

The Alps 511 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 281 

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel Swept 396 

The Prisoner of Chillon 294 



The Shipwreck 290 

To Thomas Moore 441 

Venice 513 

Cable, George W. — An American novelist,bom 
in New Orleans, 1844. In 1884 came forward as a 
public reader and lecturer. His descriptions of 
Creole life in Louisiana have the charm of novelty 
and are widely read. 

My Daughter 678 

Campbell, Thomas. — A distinguished British 
poet, born in Glasgow, 1777. His " Pleasures of 
Hope," published at the early age of twenty-one, is 
replete with romantic beauty and generous enthu- 
siasm. " Gertrude of Wyoming " and " O'Connor's 
Child" are well-known and beautiful poems, while 
his war-songs form a choice lyrical selection. Died 
at Boulogne, 1844. 

Absence 172 

Freedom and Love 189 

Hope 548 

Lochiel's Warning 262 

Song: Withdraw not yet those lips and 

fingers 187 

Woman the Home-Maker 127 

Carew, Thomas. — An English poet and courtier, 
born 1589. Was a gentleman of the court of Char- 
les I., and wrote sonnets and other short poems, 
which rendered him a favorite in the literary and 
fashionable world. Died 1639. 

He that Loves a Rosv Cheek 127 

Song ". 184 

Vanitas Vanitatura 559 

Carletox, Will H. — An American poet, born 
in Michigan, 1845. His principal books are " Farm 
Ballads," "Farm Legends," "Young Folks' Cen- 
tennial Rhymes," and "Farm Festivals." 

From "Rifts in the Cloud" 238 

John Howard Pavne 441 

The New Church Organ 699 

Carlyle, Thomas. — An English essayist, his- 
torian and speculative philosopher, and one of the 
most remarkable writers of the age, born in Scot- 
land, 1795. His leading characteristic is a rugged 
earnestness of expression, and a range of thought 
widened and deepened by his profound acquaint- 
ance with the writings of the great German think- 
ers. Died in 1881. 

But heard are the voices 527 

Music 402 

Napoleon at St. Helena 460 

Nothing Lost 527 

The Song and the Singer 566 

Work 599 

Cary, Phcebe. — Sister of Alice Cary, born 1824. 
Was a contributor to periodical literature, and in 
1854 published "Poems and Parodies." Died July 
31, 1871. 

Nearer Home 230 

The Neglected Pattern 604 

Cary, Alice. — An American author, born near 
Cincinnati, Ohio, 1820. She published several vol- 
umes of poems and other works, including three 
novels. Her sketches of Western life, entitled 
" Clovernook," were very popular, both in America 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



725 



and Europe. Died February 12, 1871. 

An Order for a Picture". 400 

Cervantes, Miguel De. — Tliis most illustrious 
of Spanish writers, was born in 1547, at Alcala, in 
New Castile. His taste for literature was early de- 
veloped, and was chiefly directed towards poetry. 
His life was full of adventures and uncommon ex- 
periences. In 1605 was published the first part of 
"Don Quixote." This celebrated work speedily 
made him famous. It was at length completed by 
the api^earance of the second part in 1615. Cer- 
vantes died on the 23d of April, 1616; Shakspere 
dying on the very same day in England. 

Sancho Panza's Decisions 686 

Chamberlayne, William.— An English poet 
and physician, born 1619. Died 1689. 

Morning. 383 

Chandler, Bessie. — An American poet and 
philanthropist, born in Delaware, 1807. She wrote 
several poems on moral and religious subjects. 
Died in Michigan, 1834. 

Keys 41 

Chatterton, Thomas. — An English poet, born 
at Bristol, 1752. He was the son of a poor school- 
master. When not quite 16, he published in a Bris- 
tol newspaper specimens of old poetry which he 
claimed were written by a priest in the 15th cen- 
tury. To those who were competently familiar with 
the Old English language and history, however, the 
spuriousness of his claim was at once evident. The 
minstrel's song in the tragedy of "^lla" is the 
best imitation of the antique. But perversity of 
principle was manifest alike in the unhappy boy's 
writings and in his conduct. Disappointed to the 
verge of desperation he committed suicide before 
completing his 18th year. 

Spring, from "JElla" 314 

Chaucer, Geoffrey.— The "Father of English 
Poetry," born in 1328, in London. In the dis- 
charge of foreign missions, he was sent to Genoa in 
1373, on which journey he is supposed to have had 
an interview with Petrarch. He received a house 
in the royal demesne of Woodstock, and there 
most of his works were written. The "Canterbury 
Tales," his chief poem, is replete with a deep in- 
sight into human character. Died 1400. 

Departure of the Pilgrims 432 

Emilie \ 439 

In the Woods 336 

Morning 381 

The Poor Parson 422 

Chesterfield, Philip Stanhope, Earl. — An 
English statesman and litterateur, born 1694. Took 
an active part in the parliamentary and court life 
of the reign of George II. The only writings of this 
accomplished person that are at all remembered are 
his "Letters " to his son. Died in 1773. 

Good Breeding 583 

Cist, C. 

Olden Memories 109 

Clarke, S. J. — A popular American writer, born 
at Pompey, N. Y., in 1825. Her first productions 
appeared in the New York Mirror, under the 
pseudonym of "Grace Greenwood," In 1853 



was married to Leander K. Lippincott of Phila. 

Love's Sweet Memories 139 

Clephane, Elizabeth C. 

The Ninety and Nine 222 

Clough, Arthur Hugh. — An English poet, born 
in 1819. Produced, in 1848, " Bothie of Tober-na- 
Vuolich: a Long Vacation Pastoral," which is 
much admired. Died at Florence, 1861. 

Qua Cursum Yentus 156 

Coleman, Charles W., Jr. 

When Day Meets Night 387 

Coleridge, Hartley. — An English poet, the 
eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was born at 
Clevedon, 1796. Imagination was predominant in 
him, and while yet a boy he wrote long and extraord- 
inary romances. Many of his poems are of rare ex- 
cellence. Died in 1849. 

Song : She is Not Fair to Outward View 167 

The Nightingale 349 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. — An English poet, 
philosopher and theologian, born 1772. He early 
distinguished himself by his classical acquirements, 
and by an extraordinary passion for metaphysical 
studies. "Remorse," a traged}', "The Ancient Mar- 
iner," and " Christabel," are among the best known 
of his poems. His influence as a philosopher and 
theologian has been very great. He was noted for 
his pure love of truth and rare simplicity of nature. 
Died 1834. 

Ancient Mariner 660 

For in This Mortal Frame 557 

Genevieve «. .194 

Love 197 

Love's Burial-Place 135 

The Exchange 192 

The Minstrel's Call 135 

Youth and Age 401 

CoLLLNS, William. — An eminent English lyric 
poet, born 1720. He was the friend of Dr. Johnson. 
His excellent odes on the "The Passions," "To 
Mercy," " To Evening," etc., appeared in 1747, but 
were treated with unmerited neglect. Died 1756. 

Ode: How Sleep the Brave 265 

The Passions 634 

CoLTON, Caleb Charles. — An English author, 
born 1780. His chief reputation rests upon "La- 
con, or Many Things in Few Words." Although a 
beneficed clergyman, he was a well-known fre- 
quenter of the gaming-table, and subsequent!}' 
lived in Paris a professed gamester. He killed him- 
self at Fontainebleau in 1832. 

Observation 397 

Cone, Helen Gray. 

The Tender Heart 683 

Conway Hugh. 

The Mother's Vigil 123 

CooKE, Eliza. — An English poet, of great merit 
and originality, born in 1817. In 1864 she obtained 
a literary pension of £100 a year. Among her 
popular productions are "The Old Arm-chair" and 
"Home in the Heart." 

The Old Arm Chair 82 

There's a Silver Lining to Every Cloud 601 



726 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



Cook, Marc EuG■E^-E. 

A Farewell 95 

Cooke, George "VYingrove. — A Britisli lawyer 
and writer, born 1814. Wrote several biographies, 
and after a visit to China in 1857, published " China 
and Lower Bengal." Died 1865. 

The Chinese Language 697 

Cooke, Philip Pe.vdleton. — An American 
poet, born in Virginia in 1816. "Florence Vane" 
is one of his most popular poems. Died 1850. 

Florence Vane 81 

CousiJsr, Victor. — A celebrated French philoso- 
pher and metaphA'sician, born at Paris, 1792. From 
1825 to 1840, appeared his celebrated translations 
of Plato, in 13 volumes. At this period. Cousin 
was one of the most influential leaders of opinion 
among the educated classes in Paris. Died 1867. 

Art 194 

Cowley, Abraham. — An English poet born in 
London, 1608. He is now almost forgotten, but 
was highly esteemed by Milton and Dr. Johnson. 
Died 1667. 

Drinking 396 

Of Obscurity 549 

The Grove 345 

Cowper, William. — An English Doet, born in 
1731. "The Task" is the best of all his poems; 
while his correspondence exhibits him as one of the 
most elegant of English letter-writers. Died in 
Norfolk in 1800. 

The Voice of Nature 366 

Winter 309 

CoxE, Arthur Clevelaio), D. D. — An Ameri- 
can Episcopal clergyman and author, born in New 
Jersey, 1818. In 1859 became rector of Grace 
Church in the city of New York, and in 1865 Bish- 
op of Western New York. 

Old England 495 

Crabbe, George. — An English poet, born in 
1754. His reputation began with the publication 
of his Doem, " The Library." Died 1832. 

To a Library 522 

Craik, DixAH MuLOCK. — Dinah Mulock, an ex- 
cellent and popular English author, born in 1826. 
In 1865 was married to George Lillie Craik. Is 
the author of the popular novel, "John Halifax, 
Gentleman." 

Philip, My King 442 

Cranch, Christopher Pearse. — A poet and 
landscape-painter, born in Virginia, 1813. He vis- 
ited Italy in 1848, after which he resided for many 
years in Paris. 

At the Grave of Keats 447 

Gnosis 543 

CuxTJTXGHAM, Allan. — A popular English nov- 
elist and biographer, born 1785. Published a much 
admired dramatic poem, "Sir Marmaduke Max- 
well," and several valuable biographies. Died 1842. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 363 

Cutter, George Washington. — An American 
poet, born in Kentucky, 1814. His "Song of 
Steam" is a popular poem. Died 1865. 

Song of Steam ;.404 



Dana, Richard Henry. An American poet 
and essayist, born 1787 at Cambridge, Mass. His 
poem, " The Buccaneer," is well-known. 

The Buccaneer's Island 471 

Daniel, Samuel. — An English poet of great 
merit, born 1562. Was tutor to Anne Clifford, 
who was afterwards Countess of Pembroke. He 
lived many years in London, where he associated 
with Shakspere, jVIarlowe, and other poets. Was 
highly appreciated by his contemporaries. Died 
16l9. 

From an Epistle to the Countess of Cum- 
berland 552 

Love is a Sickness Full of Woes 143 

Sonnet 35 

Darley; George. — A poet and mathematician, 
born in Dublin, 1785. Gained distinction in Lon- 
don, by his critical contributions to the "Literary 
Gazette," and "Athenaeum " and by several poems. 
Died 1849. 

Song of the Summer Winds 824 

The Gambols of Children 32 

Darwin, Erasmus. — An English phj'sician and 
poet, born 1731. He wrote a curious poem, "The 
Botanic Garden," which has been greatly admired. 
Died 1802. 

Song to May 320 

Davis, Miriam K. 

Fairy Gold 370 

Nature and Song Cover lining 

Nature and Books Fly leaf 

Preface v 

Wild-Flowers Fly leaf 

Thought-Flowers Cover lining 

Davis, Thomas. — An Irish poet and political 
writer, born 1814. Died 1845. 

Sack of Baltimore 97 

Dekker, Thomas. — An English dramatist, who 
lived in the reign of James I. " The Gull's Horn- 
Book" is noted as presenting a curious picture of 
the manners of his time. Died about 1638. 

Sleep 607 

De LaRame, Louise ("Ouida"). 

Affliction 51 

Denham, Sir John. — A British poet, born at 
Dublin, 1615. He accompanied Charles II. in his 
exile. The poem of " Cooper's Hill " is his most 
celebrated. Died 1668. 

The Thames 503 

Dennis, John. — An English writer and critic, 
born 1657. The most successful of his dramas 
were " Libertv Asserted," and "A Plot and No 
Plot." Died 1734. 

In the Summer Time 329 

De Qltncey, Thomas. — An English author, 
born in Manchester, 1785. While at Oxford, he 
contracted the habit of eating opium, to which he 
remained a bounden slave for many years. The 
consequences were fearful, as he himself relates in 
his principal work, "The Confessions of an Eng- 
lish Opium Eater." In 1843 he settled at Lass- 
wade, near Edinburgh. His works evince profound 
learning and deep speculation together ^vith great 



AUTHORS' mDEX. 



727 



critical powers and terseness of diction. Died 1860. 

Knowledge and Power 540 

The Ancient Mariner 659 

The Horrors of Foreknowledge 667 

DERZHAViisr, Gabriel Romanovitch. — A Rus- 
sian poet, born in Kasan, 1743. His poems are 
marked by lofty sentiments and beautiful, imagery, 
especially his world-renowned "Ode to God," 
which has been translated not only into every Eu- 
ropean language, but even into Persian, Chinese 
and Japanese. Died in 1816. 

God 246 

Dickens, Charles. — The distinguished English 
novelist, born at Portsmouth, 1812. Began his ca- 
reer with the publication of " Sketches by Boz." 
Then followed in rapid succession, " Pickwick Pa- 
pers," " Oliver Twist," "Nicholas Nickleby," and 
others in the series of his popular works. "The 
tendency of his writings is to make us practically 
benevolent, to excite our sympathy in behalf of the 
aggrieved and sutfering in all classes, and especial- 
ly in those who are most removed from observa- 
tion." Died 1870. 

Italy 516 

The Battle-field 470 

The Hollow Down by the Flare .....519 

The Ivy Green 340 

The Voice of the Waves 90 

DoBSON, Austin. — An English poet; was born 
1840. He published many poems, chiefly graceful 
lyrics, and a number of critical sketches of authors 
and painters. 

An Eastern Apologue 607 

The Cure's Progress 710 

The Lost Elixir 557 

Domett, Alfred. — An English poet, born 1811. 
Has published " Venice, a Poem," " Ranolf and 
Amohia," and other poems. He is understood to 
be the hero of Robert Browning's poem, "Waring." 

A Christmas Hymn .209 

DouDNEY, Sarah. 

My Nell 135 

Douglas op Fingland. 

Annie Laurie 182 

Drake, Joseph Rodman. — An American poet, 
born in New York, 1795. In 1819 he wrote hum- 
orous and satirical verses which were published in 
the Evening Post under the signature of " Croak- 
er." He was an intimate friend of Fitz-Greene 
Halleck. His principal works are the "Culprit 
Fay," a beautiful, imaginative poem, and the much 
admired verses on "The American Flag;" the last 
four lines of the latter being written by Fitz- 
Greene Halleck. Died 1820 in New York. 

The American Flag 269 

The Culprit Fay 627 

Drumimond, William. — An early Scotch poet, 
born 1585. He was the first to write in pure Eng- 
lish dialect. Died 1649. 

Beauty Fades 612 

Sonnet: Sweet Spring, Thou Turn'st With 

All Thy Goodly Train 105 

Sonnet to a Nightingale 351 



Sonnet: What Doth it Serve to See Sun's 

Burning Face 97 

Dryden, John. — An English poet, born 1601. 
Was poet-laureate of England, and the head of the 
English heroic drama in" the time of Charles II. 
His prefaces and the "Essay on Dramatic Poesy," 
prove him to be a master of what he himself calls 
"that other harmony of prose." While his "Sa- 
tires" and "Fables" are masterpieces of poetry. 
His "Ode to St. Cecilia's Day, or Alexander's 
Feast," is one of the finest poems in the language. 
Died 1700. 

Alexander's Feast 639 

Love 173 

Redemption 214 

Zimri 455 

Duffield, Samuel W. 

Coinmon Things 400 

Dunbar, William. — An early Scottish poet, 
born in Lothian, 1460. He is the author of several 
beautiful poems, " The Thistle und Rose," " Merle 
and Nightingale " and others. Died about 1520. 

Cheerfulness 581 

Eastman, Charles Gamage. — An American 
poet and journalist, born in Maine, 181 6. Died 1861. 

Afternoon 407 

Eliot, George. — Marion Evans Cross, better 
known under her assumed name of" George Eliot," 
an English author of remarkable power, born at 
Grifi', 1819. "Her writings are characterized by 
powerful originality, wide learning, masterly in- 
sight and invention, and vigorous and sinewy dic- 
tion." She was married in the spring of 1880 to a 
Mr. Cross, and died at Chelsea Dec. 22d of the same 
year. 

Misshapen Lives 91 

Perception of Poetry 551 

Ruins on the Rhine 509 

Secret Sorrows 78 

Song from "The Spanish Gvpsy" 175 

The Circle of Life 1 617 

The Troubles of Childhood 595 

Elliot, Ebenezer. — An English poet, called "The 
Corn-Law Rhymer," born 1781. About 1821 he 
wrote his most popular poem, the "Corn-Law 
Rhymes," urging the repeal of duties on corn, 
which excited general admiration. Died 1849. 

Light 249 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. — A celebrated Amer- 
ican poet and essayist, born in Boston, 1803. Has 
contributed largely to periodicals. He is unques- 
tionably one of the most eminent modern philoso- 
phers of the Pantheistic school, and one of the most 
remarkable personifications of American genius. 
Died 1882. 

Behavior 585 

Different Minds 542 

Each and All 572 

From " The Humble Bee " 638 

Music 397 

The Rhodora 329 

Emmet, Robert. — An Irish revolutionist, born 
in Dublin, 1780. He v/as a member of the bar, 
and a highly gifted and estimable man. Becoming 



728 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



involved in the revolutionary troubles of 1802-3, 
he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to death, which 
he suffered Sept. 20, 1803. 

Vindication 274 

Eytinge, Margaret. 

And Now Comes Autumn 306 

Feltham, Owen. — A learned English writer un- 
der the reign of James I., born about 1608. Was 
a zealous ro^^alist in the civil war. Is celebrated as 
the author of a work entitled " Resolves, Divine, 
Moral, and Political." Died about 1678. 

Against Readiness to Take Offense 553 

Fields, James Ticknor. — An American littera- 
teur^ born in New Hampshire, 1817. Was a part- 
ner in several Boston book firms, retiring from 
business 1870. Was for several years editor of the 
'^Atlantic Monthly, and in conjunction with E. P. 
Whipple edited "A Familv Library of English 
Poetry." Died at Boston 1881. 

Dirge for a Young Girl 94 

Forrester, M. M. 

Yesterday 153 

Fuller, Thomas. — One of the wittiest and most 
original of English authors, born 1608. Is noted 
as the author of " The Worthies of England " — a 
production valuable alike for its history of the 
countrv, and also for its biographical anecdote. 
Died 1661. 

Recreations 602 

Gall, Richard. — A Scottish poet, born in 1776. 
Acquired distinction as the author of several popu- 
lar songs. Died 1801. 

My Only Joand DearieO 154 

Gallagher, William D, — An American poet 
and journalist, born in Philadelphia in 1808. 
Among his works are three volumes of poems en- 
titled " Erato." 

Indian Summer 306 

Lines 90 

The Forest 478 

Gibbon, Edward. — An eminent English histori- 
an, born at Putney in 1737. In 1770 he began his 
celebrated history of the "Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire." Gibbon's great history abounds 
with proofs of immense learning, of a mind pene- 
trating and sagacious, and of almost unrivalled 
talents for ridicule. Died 1794. 

The Conquest of Jerusalem 279 

Gilpin, Rev. William. — A distinguished Eng- 
lish writer, born 1724. He is the author of " Essays 
on Picturesque Beauty," a work describing the 
picturesque scenery of England, with plates finely 
engraved by himself. Died 1804. 

Sunrise in the Forest 379 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. — The most illus- 
trous name in German literature, and one of the 
greatest poets of any age or country, born at Frank- 
fort-on-the-Main, 1749. While very^ young, Goethe 
exhibited a wonderful precocity of intellect, and in 
1765 he composed the first of his poems which 
have been preserved. A few of his works are : 
"Goetz von Berlichingen, "Wilhelm Meister," 
"Hermann and Dorothea," and "Faust." Died 1832. 

Wisdom 609 



Goldsmith, Oliver.— A brilliant man of letters 
of the last century, born in Ireland in 1728. His 
most popular prose work is the " Vicar of Wake- 
field ; " while his poems, "The Traveler" and 
" The Deserted Village " have a high place among 
English classics. He had also fine dramatic talent. 
Although largely remunerated for his works, he 
was constantly involved in pecuniary embarrass- 
ments, and when he died, April, 1774, he was $10,- 
000 in debt, but beloved and more truly lamented 
than any literary man of his generation. 

The Deserted Village 486 

The Traveler 507 

Goodale, Dora Read. — An American poet, 
born in Massachusetts, 1866. The younger oi two 
sisters remarkable for precocity. A volume of their 
poems was published when tliey were respectively 
15 and 12. 

Your Coming 155 

Gould, Hannah Flagg. — An American poet, 
born in Massachusetts. Has published several 
volumes of poems. Died 1865. 

The Frost 314 

Grahame, James. — A Scottish poet and divine, 
born 1765. His principal poem, " The Sabbath," 
is esteemed one of the finest compositions of the 
kind. Died 1811. 

A Summer Sabbath Walk 481 

Gray, Thomas. — A celebrated English poet, 
born in London, 1716. Especially known as the 
author of 'An Elegy Written in a Country Church- 
yard," and of the splendid odes, "On the Progress 
of Poesy" and "The Bard." Gray, although he 
published little besides his poems, was a man of 
deep and varied learning, and his correspondence 
places him among our best epistolary writers. 
Died 1771. 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard ...617 
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 601 

Ode to Adversity 50 

The Bard 267 

The Progress of Poesy 634 

Greene, Albert Gorton. — An American poet, 
born in Rhode Island in 1802. Is the author of 
fugitive poems, of which "Old Grimes "is the 
most famous. Died 1868. 

Old Grimes is Dead 704 

Habington, William. — An English poet born 
1605. Wrote a collection of poems, entitled "Cas- 
tara." Died 1645. 

Night 391 

Description of Castara 133 

Hall, Eugene J. — An American poet, born in 
Vermont, 1845. Author of the popular hymn, 
"Sweet Bve and Bve." 

The Sweet Bye and Bye 115 

Hall, Robert. — An American lawyer and poet, 
born in South Carolina, 1825. Published a vol- 
ume of poems about 1848. Died 1854. 

The Bible 213 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene. — An American poet, 
born in Connecticut, 1795. His first contribution 
to literature consisted of humorous and satirical 
odes and lyrics, contributed to the j^ew York 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



729 



Evening Post in 1819, in conjunction with his 
gifted friend, Joseph Kodman Drake, under the 
pseudonyms of " Croaker " and "Panny," Among 
his well known poems are "Alnwick Castle" and 
"Marco Bozzaris, the latter one of the finest mar- 
tial lyrics in the language. Died 1867. - 

Burns 443 

Marco Bozzaris 264 

On the Death of Joseph Eodman Drake 447 

Hamilton-, Margaret. 

Distance 397 

Hare, Julius Charles. — An eminent English 
divine, born 1796. Has acquired distinction bv his 
" Guesses at Truth." Died 1855. 

Mirth 541 

Harrison-, Virginia B. 

The Gray Nun 384 

Harte, (Erancis) Bret. — A distinguished 
American author, born in Albany, N. Y., ]839. 
Went to California in 1854. Was United States 
consul at Glasgow in ] 880. His books are often 
collections of short tales, of marked originality. 

•Dickens in Camp... 437 

Eate 609 

Her Letter 146 

Plcun Language from Truthful James 710 

The Mountain Heartsease 332 

The Victim of Erauds... 704 

Ha-wthorxe, Nathaniel. — A distinguished 
American novelist, born at Salem, Mass., 1804. 
Among his principal works are "The Scarlet Let- 
ter," " The House of the Seven Gables," and " The 
Marble Eaun." Hawthorne, though a prose-writer 
only, is in spirit a poet; and his style is exquisitely 
simple, clear and delicate. Died 1864. 

Companionship with Children 31 

" I have been a happy man" 112 

October Da3^s 304 

Phoebe Pyncheon's Chamber 617 

Haynte, Paul Hamilton. — A poet, and nephew 
of Robert Y. Hayne, the distinguished American 
orator, born in South Carolina, 1831. Published 
several volumes of poems ; and a complete edition 
in 1881. 

A Madrigal 163 

Windless Rain 375 

Hazlitt, William. — An English author and 
critic, born 1778. In 1805 he produced his "Prin- 
ciples of Human Action," which was the begin- 
ning of a long and successful literary career. Died 
1830. 

The Character of Ealstaff. 418 

Heber, Reginald. — An excellent English poet 
and prelate, born in 1783. While at college 
he produced his beautiful prize poem, "Pales- 
line." His "Hymns" are of a superior order of 
lyric poetry. Died 1826. 

Missionary Hymn 244 

The Good Old Times 215 

Time and Eternity 236 

Heine, Heinhich. — A celebrated German poet 
and litterateur, was born of Jewish parents in Dus- 
seldorf in 1800. Heine is probably best remem- 
45 



bered for his songs, many of which are of exquis- 
ite beauty, and are even thought by some to rival 
in their delicacy and finish the earlier songs of 
Goethe. Died at Paris, 1856. 

Plagiarism 553 

Hemans, Eelicia Dorothea. — An English poet, 
born 1794. Published her first yolume of poems 
in 1808. "The Eorest Sanctuary," "Records of 
Women" and "The Vespers of Palermo," are 
among her well-known works. "In her poetry, 
religious truth, moral purity, and intellectual beau- 
ty ever meet together." Died 1885. 

Dirge 85 

The Homes of England 484 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Eathers 233 

Henderson, W. J. 

A Song in October 304 

Herbert, George. — An English poet, born 
1593. After taking holy orders, he became rector 
of Bemerton, Wiltshire, where he died in 1632. 
He is esteemed the best of the older English devo- 
tional poets, and his chief production, " The Tem- 
ple, or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations," 
contains passages of the most exquisite verse. 

Life 251 

Man's Medley 253 

The Elixir .! 251 

Virtue 246 

Herrick, Robert. — An English poet, born 1591. 
Is the author of " The Hesperides," and some of 
the most charming pastoral verse in the language. 
Died 1674. 

To Blossoms 339 

To Daffodils 345 

To Primroses filled with Morning Dew 342 

Herschel, Sir John. — Ah eminent astronomer 
and philosopher, born 1792. The London Journal 
of Science s-dvs, "be combines in his own person 
the assiduous astronomical observer, the acute 
mathematician, the deep-thinking philosopher, and 
the graceful poet. It is not to many men that in- 
tellectual powers of so high order have been given." 
Died 1871. 

A Taste for Reading 551 

Hervey, Thomas Kibble. — An English poet of 
merit, born 1804. Was chief editor of Athenaeum 
from 1846-1854. Died 1859. 

The Convict Ship 592 

Heywood, Thomas. — An English actor and 
dramatic author, of the times of Elizabeth, James 
I., and Charles L, and pronounced by Lamb a 
sort of prose Shakspere. Dates of birth and death 
unknown. 

Good-morrow 187 

Hill, Thomas. 

The BoboHnk 360 

Hinxman, E. 

Love's Impress 169 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno. — A popular Amer- 
ican poet and novelist, born in New York, 1806. 
He was one of the most active and successful con- 
tributors to the American magazines. His career 
was a brilliant one, and were it not for his love of 



730 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



the horrible and repulsive, he might have claimed 
rank among the best modern novelists. Died at 
Harrisburg, Pa., 1884. 

Monterey 272 

Hogg, James. — A British poet, popularl}- known 
as the " Ettrick Shepherd," born 1772. With the 
appearance of " The Queen's Wake " in 1813, he 
became greatly distinguished as an author. Al- 
though inferior in tender and passionate earnest- 
ness to Burns, yet he possessed a higher creative 
fancy ; and many of his pieces, such as Bonny Kil- 
meney, are marked by a certain wild and dreamy 
fascination, unlike anything else with which we are 
acquainted. Died 1836. 

The Skylark 321 

When the Kye Come Hame 145 

HoLLAOT), JosiAH GILBERT, M. D. ("Timothy 
Titcomb"). — A popularAmerican author, born in 
Massachusetts, 1819. Among his works are " Gold 
Foil," " Bitter Sweet, a Dramatic Poem," " Arthur 
Bonnycastle," and others. In 1870 became editor 
of ScHbner's Magazine. Died 1881. 

Complaint 55 

The Question Illustrated by Nature 571 

Wanted ! 412 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. — An eminent 
American physician and man of letters, born at 
Cambridge, Mass., 1809. His contributions to 
literature have been many, various and distinguish- 
ed. His works are held in high estimation in both 
America and England. His writings abound in hu- 
mour and wit, and exhibit a shrewd insight into 
human character. 

Books 555 

Mare Rubrum 394 

My Aunt 683 

Sweet Swan of Avon 482 

The Chambered Nautilus 355 

The Last Leaf 435 

The Plowman 420 

The Voiceless 6n 

To an Insect 353 

Hood, Thomas. — An English poet and humor- 
ist, born in London, 1798. In 1821 became sub- 
editor of the London Magazine and a member 
of that brilliant coterie of writers, including Charles 
Lamb, Hazlitt, Hartley Coleridge, and others. In 
1827 appeared the exquisite "Pleaof theMidsummer 
Fairies." In 1830 he began the publication of the 
" Comic Annual" which continued for ten years. 
He wrote "Tylney Hall." a novel, and in 1843 his 
immortal " Song of the Shirt," and the " Bridge of 
Sighs." Died 1845. 

A Parental Ode to my Son 677 

Deafness 697 

Doubles 694 

Faithless Nelly Grav 673 

Gold r 569 

Morning Meditations 680 

Ruth 172 

Song of the Shirt 76 

Stanzas 78 

The Bridge of Sighs. ., 108 



The Death-bed 88 

The Fairies 644 

The Haunted House 520 

The Lady's Dream 48 

To a Child Embracing his Mother 128 

Hope, James Barron^. — An American poet, 
born in Virginia. In 1857 he published a volume 
of poems. 

Three Summer Studies 327 

Houghton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord. 
— An English statesman and miscellaneous writer, 
born in 1809. Was a contributor to the Edinhu7^gk 
Review. Died 1885. 

The Long Ago Ill 

Howe, Mrs. Julia Ward. — An American 
poet, daughter of Samuel Ward, a banker in New 
York, was born in 1819. Some of her poems pos- 
sess merit of a very high order. She is the author 
of the deservedlv popular song, *' Battle Hymn of 
the Republic." 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic 27& 

Howell, Elizabeth Lloyd. 

The Blind Old Milton -85. 

HowELLS, William Dean. — A distinguished 
American author, born in Ohio, 1837. He was U.. 
S. consul at Venice 1861-65, and edited the At- 
lantic Monthly 1866-81. Known chieily as a nov- 
elist. His style is one of great refinement, and 
many of his characters are drawn with remarkable, 
clearness and effect. 

American English 568. 

Through the Meadow 151 

HowiTT, Mary. — A popular English writer and 
moralist, born about 1804. Is well known both as. 
author and translator. 

Birds in Summer 351 

Hugo, Victor Marie (Comte). — A distinguish- 
ed French poet, politician, and man of letters, born 
at Besancon, 1802. Widely known as the author 
of the celebrated social romance, "LesMiserables,"' 
which has been translated into nine languages. Ha& 
also written other powerful novels. Died 1885. 

A Poet's Creed 439 

At the Last 24& 

Hume, David. — A celebrated English historian,, 
philosopher and miscellaneous writer, born at Ed- 
inburgh, 1711. His greatest work, the "History of 
England," brought him an immense popularity and 
obtained for him a pension. Died 1776. 

Character of Queen Elizabeth 449 

Hunt, (James Henry) Leigh. — A popular 
English poet and litterateur, born in 1784. Was as- 
sociated with Byron and Shelley in 1822 as an edi- 
tor of The Libei^al. The productions of this 
versatile genius are multifarious. Died in 1859. 

Abou Ben Adhem 234 

Jaffar 416 

Rondeau : Jenn}'- Kissed Me 440 

Songs of the Flowers 333 

To May 319 

Ingelow, Jean. — A popular English poet, born 
in 1830. Author of "Divided," "Songs of Sev- 
en," and "The High Tide," which have given her a 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



731 



high reputation. 

Songs of Seven 61 

Song: When the dimpled water slippeth., 44 
The High Tide on the Coast of Lincoln- 
shire! 87 

Irvikg, Washington. — An American author 
and humorist, born in New York, 1783. In 1809 
he published his humorous work, "The History of 
Nevv York, bv Diedrich Knickerbocker." The 
" Sketch Book," "The Alhambra," and the "Life 
of Columbus " are among his best known produc- 
tions. Died at Sunnyside, on the Hudson River, 1859. 

Lines 680 

New Amsterdam 473 

Rip Van Winkle's return 67 

The Alhambra by Moonlight 499 

Jackson, Helen Hunt. — An American poet 
and author of much merit, born in Massachusetts, 
1831. Her works include "Verses by H. H," 
" Bits of Travel," " A Century of Dishonor," and 
others. Died 1887. 

Arbutus 833 

. Found Dead 112 

The Song he Never Wrote 562 

The Way to Sing 559 

Jeffrey, Francis. — A distinguished British 
critic and essayist, born at Edinburgh, 1773. In 
1802 became editor of the Edmhurgh Review ; 
and the celebrity of this journal was owing more 
to him, than to any other of the contributors. Died 
1850. 

Men of Genius Generally Cheerful 413 

Johnson, Finley. 

A Mother's Love 124 

Johnson, Samuel, LL. D. — A celebrated Eng- 
lish lexicographer, and one of the most distinguish- 
ed writers of the 18th century, born in 1709. He 
was a man of wonderful, comprehensive intellect, 
and when free from the influence of prejudice or 
passion, his judgments were, generally speaking, 
remarkably just. Died 1784. 

Charles XII 459 

Retirement from the World 601 

Jones, Ernest, M. P. — A.n English poet and 
Chartist. Author of "The Wood Spirit," and 
"Chartist Lyrics." Died 1869. 

Moonrise 391 

Jones, Samuel Parker. 

Love 237 

Jones, Sir William. — A famous English schol- 
ar and jurist, born in 1746. Died 1794. 

An Ode in Imitation of Alcseus 265 

JoNSON, Ben. — A celebrated English dramat- 
ist, the contemporary and friend of Shakspere, 
born at Westminster "^1574. In 1598, produce(3 his 
comedy, "Every Man in his Humour." He died 
1637 and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where 
a tablet has been erected to his memory in Poet's 
Corner, inscribed, 'O rare Ben Jonson." 

Hymn to Diana ....647 

The Sweet Neglect 164 

To Celia 169 

Triumph of Chads 187 



Karr, Jean Baptiste Alphonse. — A French 
author, born at Paris, ] 808. In 1832 published a nov- 
el written in his youth, "Sous les Tilleuls," a me- 
lange of irony and sentiment, of good sense and tri- 
fling, which at once made him popular. In 1839 
became editor-in-chief of the Figaro, and of a 
satirical monthly periodical called The Wasps. 
Wrote an ingenious work on flowers and gardens, 
"Voyage autour de mon Jardin." 

The Land of Love 142 

Keats, John. — A young English poet, born at 
London, 1796. His first poems were published in 
1817 ; Leigh Hunt kindly lending the sanction of 
his name to the publication. Then followed "En- 
dymion," and in 1820, his last and best work, 
"Lamia," and other poems. On account of feeble 
health, he visited Italy, where he arrived in Novem- 
ber, 1820, and died the following month. Shelley's 
lament for his poet friend is the beautiful and well- 
known poem. " Adonais." 

Beauty .' 548 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 528 

Saturn and Thea 79 

The Eve of St. Agnes 649 

The Wonders of All-ruling Providence 213 

Keble, John. — An English divine and poet of 
high reputation, born 1792. Was an intimate 
friend of John Henry Newman. In 1827, pub- 
lished " The Christian Year: Thoughts in Verse 
for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the 
Year" which obtained almost unbounded popular- 
ity, and passed through fiftv editions or more. 
Keble died in 1866. 

Example 227 

The Lilies of the Field 336 

Kempis, Thomas a. — A celebrated German 
ascetic writer, born at Kempen about 1380. He 
spent much of his time in copying religious books, 
and is said to have employed fifteen years in writ- 
ing a copy of the Bible. His reputation is founded 
on the well-known work, " On the Imitation of 
Christ," but it remains an unsettled question wheth- 
er he composed or only transcribed it. Many vol- 
umes have been written on each side of the Ques- 
tion. Died 1471. 

Self-Knowledge 226 

Key, Francis Scott. — An American jurist and 
poet, born in Maryland, 1779. Was the author of 
the popular national song, "The Star-Spangled 
Banner." Died 1843. 

The Star-Spangled Banner , 270 

King, Henry, Dr. — An English divine and poet, 
born in 1591. Wrote "A Poetical Version of the 
Psalms," and various sermons and religious trea- 
tises. Died 1669. 

Sic Vita 608 

KiNGSLEY, Charles. — An English clergyman, 
novelist, and poet, chaplain-in-ordinary to (^ueen 
Victoria, born at Holne Vicarage, Devon, 1819. He 
has distinguished himself as a dramatic and lyric 
poet, is the' author of several novels, " Hypatia" and 
"Westward Ho" being among the best known. 
Was appointed Professor of Modern History in 
the University of Cambridge in 1859, and made 



732 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



Dean of Rochester, 1870. Died 1875. 

Song of the Kiver 3G0 

The Sands of Dee 93 

The Three Fishers 97 

The World Goes Up and the World Goes 

Down 44 

KtNNEY, Coaxes. — An American poet, born in 
New York, 1826. Published "Keeuka and other 
Poems," in 1854. His short lyric, ''liain on the 
Roof," has attained wide popularity. 

Rain on the Roof 378 

KJNOX, AViLLiAM. — A Scottish poet, born 1789. 
Is widely known as the author of the poem, "Oh, 
Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?" 
Died 1825. 

Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be 

Proud 565 

Krotjt, Mary H. 

Beethoven 434 

Lacoste, Marie R. — An American poet, born 
in Georgia, about 1842. Known as the author of 
"Somebody's Darling," a short poem which ap- 
peared anonymously in 1863, and achieved a wide 
popularity. " 

Somebody's Darling 83 

Lamb, Charles. — An English autlior, and one 
of the most charming essayists in the language, 
born in London in 1775. He resided for the great- 
er part of his life with an accomplished sister to 
whom he was devotedly attached. Of his works 
the most eminent is undoubtedly the " Essaj^s of 
Elia," which ranks as an English classic in its own 
peculiar st\-le; our literature, indeed, contains few 
things so exquisite. Died at Edmonton in 1834. 

Books 563 

Prom "The Self-Enchanted" 394 

The Old Familiar Faces 57 

The Pleasures of Poverty 595 

Laxdon, LiETiTiA E. — A popular English poet, 
born in London, 1802. Wrote verses at the age of 
thirteen, and in 1820 became a contributor to the 
Literary Gazette, under the signature, 'L. E. L," 
and acquired an extensive reputation. In 1838, 
was married to George Maclean, Governor of Cape 
Coast Castle, Africa, whither thev went to reside. 
Died in 1839. 

Little Red Riding Hood 411 

Night at Sea 393 

Lakdor, Walter Savage. — An English poet, 
born of an ancient family in W^arwickshire, 1775. 
Landor neither sought nor won pc>pularity. Haugh- 
ty and of a savage independence, he probably de- 
spised bis contemporaries, and was neglected by 
them. But his poems possess that merit which 
will secure them a high place in the esteem of fu- 
ture generations. Died in 1864. 

Memory 533 

The One Gray Hair 706 

Lang, Andrew. — A British poet, born in Scot- 
land, 1844. PoDular also as a translator. 

Ballade of a* Girl of Erudition 683 

The Paradise of Progress 706 

Li\:RCOM, Lucy. — An American poet, born in 



Massachusetts, 1845, Her principal work is "Wild 
Roses of Cape Ann," and she has made several 
valuable compilations in prose and verse. 

Mountain Neighbors 471 

Lathrop, C. R. 

Affiinitus 604 

Lathrop, George Parsons. — An American 
author, born at Honolulu, in Hawaii, in 1851. Was 
assistant editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and editor 
of Boston Courier. Married a daughter of Nathan- 
iel Hawthorne. Among his works are noted "A 
Studv of Hawthorne," "Afterglow" and "Spanish 
Vistas." 

The Lily Pond 160 

Latimer, Hugh, Bishop. — An English bishop 
and reformer, born about 1490. He was admired 
by Henry VIIL, who conferred upon him the bish- 
opi-ic of Worcester. But Latimer, displeased with 
ihe king, remonstrated with him on his cruelties. 
Afterwards resigned his bishopric, and, on the fall 
of his patron. Lord Cromwell, was sent to the Tow- 
er. In the reign of Mary he was condemned as a Ijer- 
etic, and in 1555 was burned at the stake. His ser- 
mons have often been printed. 

Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin Sands 582 

Lazarus, Emma. — An American poet, born in 
New York City, 1849, of a Hebrew family. Pub- 
lished " Poems and Ballads from Heine, " "and oth- 
er works. 

Gifts 603 

Lew^is, Matthew ("Monk"). 

The Faultof the Puppy 679 

Leyden, John. — A Scottish poet and antiquary, 
eminent as an Oriental scholar, born 1775. Contrib- 
uted to "Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," 
and wrote other poetical pieces. Was noted as a 
linguist. Died in Java, 1811. 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 55 

To the Evening Star 154 

Lindsay, Lady Ann. 

Auld Robin Gray 49 

Linen, James. 

The Gude- Wife 201 

Locker, Frederick. — An English poet, born 
1821. Principal Works are "London Lyrics "and 
"Patchwork." 

Vanity Fair ^. 605 

LocKHART, John Gibson. — A Scottish poet, 
novehst, biographer and critic, born 1794. Mar- 
ried Sophia, daughter of Sir Walter Scott. He 
was one of the chief contributors to Blackwood's 
Magazine. "Reginald Dalton" and "Valerius, a 
Roman Storv," are among his most noted works. 
Died 1854. " 

An English Mansion 479 

Lodge, Thomas. — An English dramatist and ver- 
satile writer, born probably about 1556. Transla- 
ted "Josephus '' and "Seneca" mto English, and 
wrote successful dramas, novels and other works. 
Died 1G25. 

Rosalind's Madrigal 129 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. — One of the 
most gifted of poets, born- in Portland, Me., 1807. 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



733 



His name is not only dear lo his countrymen, but is 
held in high esteem by all English readers. As a 
poet, he is characterized by tenderness and depth 
of feeling, to the expression of which the picturesque 
and graceful simplicity of his language often im- 
parts an indescribable charm. His poems touch 
the popular heart and are familiar in almost every 
household. Died 1882. 

APsalm of Life 608 

A Swedish Country Church 493 

Death of Gabriel 106 

Excelsior 623 

From "The Day isDone." 148 

God's-Acre 214 

John Alden and Priscilla 185 

Maidenhood 42 

Nature and Art 527 

Parting and Death 104 

Sonnet 198 

The Acadian Farmhouse 468 

The Arrow and the Song 527 

The Yillage Blacksmith 414 

Weariness 62 

Logan, John, — A Scotch divine and poet, born 
1748. Died 1788. 

Ode to theCuckoo 352 

Lovelace, Sir Kich^ird. — An English poet, 
born in Kent, 1618. Was a zealous Koyalist, and 
suffered much for his attachment to Charles I. His 
poems are elegant, and he also wrote two plays; 
" The Scholar," a comedv, and " The Soldier, " a 
tragedv. Died 1658. 

To Althea from Prison 182 

To Lucasta 187 

Lover, Samuel. — An Irish novelist, poet, musi- 
cian, and artist, born in Dublin, 1797. Some of his 
songs and ballads, " Rory O'More," " The Angel's 
Whisper," and others, have achieved a world wide 
popularity. This gifted and genial man died in 
1870. 

The Angel's Whisper 134 

Tlie Birth of St. Patrick 711 

Lowell, James Russell. — A distinguished 
American poet, grandson of Judge Lowell, born at 
Cambridge, Mass., in 1819. Before leaving college, 
he published a class poem. "Conversations on 
Some of the Old Poets," which are a series of well- 
studied criticisms. "The Vision of Sir Launfal," 
and "A Fable for Critics," are well known pro- 
ductions. But his most remarkable work is the 
"Biglow Papers," a collection of humorous poems 
on political subjects, written in the Yankee dialect, 
and published in 1848. He succeeded Mr. Long- 
fellovv as professor of Modern Literature at Har- 
vard in 1854. 

Heaven Present 381 

June 320 

Song: Violet, Sweet Violet 338 

The Courtin' : 682 

The First Snowfall 119 

The Fountain 365 

What Figure ^lore Immovably August 420 

AVhatMr. Robinson Thinks 708 

Lowell, Robert. — An American clergyman and 



author, born in Massachusetts, 1816. Published a 
novel, " The New Priest in Conception Bay," and a 
collection of " Poems." 

Our Inland Summer Nightfall 390 

Lyly, John. — An English dramatic writer, born 
in Kent, about 1553. He wrote several dramas, 
and flourished as a wit at the court of Elizabeth. 
Died 1600. 

Continue Not in Anger 553 

Cupid and Campaspe 187 

Song of the Fairies 637 

Lyte, Henry Fr^otcis. — A British hvmn-writer, 
born in Scotland, 1793. Died at Nice, 1847. 

Hymn: Abide With Me 221 

Lytton, Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton, 
Earl. — An English poet, only son of Edward 
Bulwer, Baron Lytton, the celebrated novelist, 
was born 1831. He entered the diplomatic ser- 
vice in 1849, and while secretary of embassy 
at Paris, in 1873, he succeeded to the titles ofhrs 
father. He published under the pseudonym of 
''Owen Meredith," several volumes of verse, in- 
cluding" Lucile" and others. 

A Necessity 678 

The Chess-Board 156 

Macaulay, Thomas BABUNroTON, Lord. — A cel- 
ebrated English historian, orator, essayist and 
poet. At a very early age he exhibited signs 
of superiority and genius, and more especially of 
that power of memory which startled every one by 
its quickness, flexibility and range. Besides the 
" Histor}'^ of England " — his greatest work — and the 
"EssaN'sl" he wrote a collection of beautiful historic 
ballads, the well-known " Lays of Ancient Rome" 
being the principal. Died 1859, 

Ivry 283 

Milton, Dante, and ^schylus 454 

The Armada 257 

The Father of History 451 

MacDonald, George. — A distinguished Scottish 
novelist, born 1824. Most of his works are written 
for some religious or didactic purpose. 

Better Tilings 600 

The Baby..'. 41 

MacCarthy, Dennis Florence, — An Irish 
author, born 1820. Among his works are transla- 
tions of Calderon's dramas and several volumes of 
ballads and lyrics. Died 1882. 

Summer Longings 322 

Mack^vy, Charles. — A Scottish poet and writer 
of songs, born at Perth, 1814. Author of " Le- 
gends of the Isles" and manv other works. 

Little at First, but Great at Last 574 

Valor an d Virtue 54 1 

What Might be Done 564 

MacMaster, Guy Humphreys, — An Ameri- 
can poet, born at Clyde, N. Y., 1829. His most 
noted poem is the well-known "Carmen Bellico- 
sum." 

Northern Lights 373 

Macpherson, James, — A Scottish poet, celebrat- 
ed as the translator or author of " Ossian." Was 
born at Inverness, 1738. In 1760 he produced 



T9i 



AUTHORS' rNT>EX. 



" Fragments of Ancient Poetry, translated from 
the Gaelic or Erse Lan.s:uage," which were so well 
received that a subscription was formed to enable 
the author to collect additional specimens of nation- 
al poetT}',. The result of his researches was "Fin- 
gal, an Ancient Epic Poem," in six books, together 
with several other poems, professedly translated 
from originals by Ossiaii, thesoii of Fingnl, a Gaelic 
prince of the 3rd. century. These poems found 
many enthusiastic admirers throughout Europe, 
although their authenticity has been doubted. Mac- 
pherson died in 1796. 

Desolation of Balclutha • 75 

!Mahoxy, Francis.— An Irish w^riter and wit, 
born about 1805, who wrote under the assumed 
name of " Father Prout." Died 1866. 

The Bells of Shandon 399 

Marlowe, Christopher. — An English dramatic 
genius, born 1564. He was an actor, addicted to 
the lowest vices, and was killed in a quarrel with 
a footman in 1593. "Edward the Second" is one 
of his best works. The " Jew of Malta" was the 
foundation of Shakspere's "Merchant of Venice;" 
and his "Dr. Faustus" the groundwork upon which 
Goethe built his "Faust." 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 189 

Marsh, Juliet C. 

Spoken after Sorrow 116 

Marston, Philip Bourke. — An English poet, 
son of Westland Marston, the dramatist ; was born 
in 1850. He became totally blind. In youth he 
was the devoted friend of Swinburne and Dante G. 
Rossetti. Among his works are "Song Tide" and 
« Wind Voices." Died 1887. 

Love's Ghost 148 

Marvell, Andrew. — An English patriot and 
publicist, gaining, by the purity and disinterested- 
ness of his Ufe, the appellation, " Honest Andrew 
Marvell;" born 1620. As a political writer, and 
as a poet and satirist, his merits are of the highest 
order. Died 1678. 

A Drop of Dew 342 

Ode: The Spacious Firmament on High.. .248 
Massey, Gerald. — An English poet, born in 
1828. His " Ballad of Babe Christabel " is well 
known. 

Death of the Babe Christabel 110 

Tis Like a Tale of Olden Times 177 

Massinoer, Philip. — An eminent English dram- 
atic poet, born in 1584. Eighteen of his dramas are 
extant, mostly tragedies and tragi-comedies. Died 
1640. 

Longing for Death 83 

Matthews, J. N. 

There is no Rest 599 

Meredith, George. — An English author, born 
about 1828. Has attained a wide popularity as a 
novelist. 

Beauty Rohtraut 138 

Mertvale, Herman. — An English writer, born 
about 1805. Was professor of political economy 
at Oxford about 1837. Died 1874. 

Twilight 387 



Miller, Barbara. 
Death at the Goal. 



113 

Miller, Joaquin. — The literary name of Cin- 
cinnatus Heine Miller, an American poet, born at 
Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1842. When very young he went 
westward with his father. Among his poems are 
" Songs of the Sierras," and " The Danites," an 
effective and succssful plav. 

Rome " 509 

The Gold-hunter 175 

Who is Love? 167 

William Walker 458 

MiLMAN, Henry Hart.— An English poet, his- 
torian and divine, born in 1791. In 1820 publish- 
ed " The Fall of Jerusalem," a sacred poem, found- 
ed upon Josephus' narrative. He published a beau- 
tiful edition of Horace, and a new and copiously 
annotated edition of Gibbon's "Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire." Died 1868. 

The Merry Heart 33 

MiLTON, John. — An immortal poet, and, if we 
except Shakspere, the most illustrious name in Eng- 
lish literature; born in London in 1608. He had 
read all the Greek and Latin writers, and wrote 
Latin verses with classic elegance. In studious re- 
tirement he composed his beautiful poems, " Co- 
mus," "L' Allegro;" "II Penseroso," and "Lyci- 
das." About 1657 he planned a great epic poem, 
the result of his deliberation and long choosing, 
being "Paradise Lost," an epic that ranks with 
Homer's "Iliad," and Dante's "Divine Comed3%" 
In prose, Milton evinced an equal power, his poli- 
tical writings exerting a special influence on his 
times. His later years, including the period of 
the production of "Paradise Lost" and "Paradise 
Regained." were passed in total blindness. Died 
in 1674. 

Evening in Paradise 227 

Fame 547 

From the "Masque of Comus" 547 

Hymn on the Morning of Christ's Nativity 205 

II Penseroso 537 

Invocation to Light 236 

L' Allegro 585 

Morning Hymn 230 

Song on May Morning 381 

Sonnet on his Blindness 223 

Truth 540 

MiTFORD, Mary Russell. — A charming Eng- 
lish writer, born 1786. In order to relieve the pe- 
cuniary embarrassments of her father, she devoted 
herself to literature at an early age. Her works 
have now the favor of all classes and have passed 
through many editions. 

Song: The Sun is Careering in Glorv and 
Might r 340 

Montrose, James Graham, Marquis of. — A 
Scottish noble, and a distinguished royalist leader 
under Charles I., known in English history as the 
" Great Marquis," was born in 1613. Received an 
excellent education, and attained great military 
prominence. Was executed at Edinburgh in 1650. 
Ballad : I'll Never Love Thee More 144 



AUTHORS' IISDEX. 



735 



Montgomery, James. — An English poet, born 
in 1771. In 1806 he produced his "Wanderer in 
Switzerland," the success of which induced him 
to bring out his "West Indies." In 1823 appeared 



" Original Hymns for Public, Private, and Social 

Devotion." 

Died 1854. 



lymi 
His 



devotional poetry is of high merit. 



Hail the High, the Holy One! 245 

Home 465 

Prayer 245 

Eobert Burns 444 

The Patriot's Pass-word 276 

Moore, Clement C, LL.D. — An American 
poet and scholar, born in New York, 1779. Was a 
son of Bishop Moore of the Episcopal Church, and 
professor of Hebrew and Greek literature in the 
Protestant Episcopal Seminary in New York. His 
poem, " The Visit of St. Nicholas" is universally 
familiar. Died in 1863. 

The Visit of St. Nicholas 647 

Moore, Thomas. — Ireland's national poet — 
"thepoet of all circles," as Byron styled him — was 
born in Dublin, 1779. His principal works are 
"Lalla Rookh," an Oriental poem; "The Two- 
penny Post Bag," a witty satire directed against the 
Tories ; " The Fudge Eamily in Paris," "Loves of 
the Angels," and his popular "Irish Melodies." 
He was a poet of the fashionable world. Died 
1852. 

As by the Shore, at Break of Day 275 

Beauty and Song .". 299 

Believe Me, if all those Endearing Young 

Charms .177 

Come, Ye Disconsolate 209 

Evening Calm 387 

Farewell, but Whenever You Welcome 

the Hour 194 

"Filled with Balm the Gale Sighs On" 184 

Oft in the Stilly Night 51 

Prelude 314 

Secluded Beauty 402 

Song of Nourmahal 394 

The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls 277 

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 195 

The Peri's Offering 258 

The Traitor 267 

Yes, 'tis not Helm nor Feather 278 

More, Hannah. — An English moralist and 
miscellaneous writer, born in 1744. She was the 
friend of Garrick, Dr. Johnson, and other eminent 
men of that period, by whom she was greatly es- 
teemed for her character. She devoted herself to 
compositions of a moral and religious nature. 
Died 1833. 



Solitude. 



.605 



Morris, George P. — An American poet and 
journalist, born in Philadelphia in 1802. In 1846 
he became associated with Mr. N. P. Willis in the 
publication of the i/ome Journal. As a writer of 
lyrics he is well known, and, with Mr. Willis, ed- 
ited "Prose and Poetry of Europe and America." 
Died 1864. 

To methe World's an Open Book 381 

Woodman, Spare that Tree 399 



Morris, William. — An English poet and decor- 
ative artist, born in 1834. Among his works are: 
"Life and Death of Jason," "The Earthly Para- 
dise," and " Hopes and Fears for Art." 

July 831 

Motherwell, William. — A Scottish poet, born 
in 1798. He published an interesting collection of 
ballads, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Mod- 
ern." His poems are remarkable for pathos and 
earnest feeling. Died 1835. 

Jeanie Morrison 165 

Song: Could Love Impart by Nicest Art...l31 

They Come, the Merry Summer Months 322 

MouLTON, Louise Chandler. — An American 
author, born in Connecticut in 1835. Mrs. Moul- 
ton's poems, and especially her sonnets, are of a 
high order. 

The Strength of the Hills 475 

Muhlenberg, Rev. William Augustus. — ^A 
well-known American clergyman and poet, born in 
Philadelphia in 1796. Of his literary productions, 
his hymn, "I would not hve alway " is the best 
known. Died in New York in 1877. 

I Would Not Live Alway 211 

Nairne. Lady Carolina. — A Scottish poet, 
born in 1766, famed for her beauty. Among her 
works are: "The Land o' the Leal," and " The 
Laird 'o Cockpen." Died 1845. 

The Land o' the Leal 192 

NiCHOLLS, Mrs. 

Indian Summer 306 

Norton, Mrs. Caroline E. S. — An English 
poet, and grand-daughter of the Right Hon. R. 
Brinsley Sheridan. Born in 1808. At a very early 
age she gave proofs of the literary talents heredita- 
ry in her family. The "Child of the Islands," and 
the " Undying One " are the most important of her 
later works. Died 1877. 

To the Duchess of Sutherland 453 

O'Hara, Theodore. — An American poet, born 
in Kentucky, about 1820. Is best known for his 
poem, "The Bivouac of the Dead." Died 1867. 

The Bivouac of theDead 277 

Oldys. William. — An English biographer, born 
about 1690. W>ote a " Life of Sir Walter Ra- 
Died 1761. 

Song: Busy, Curious, Thirsty Fly 606 

O'Reilly, John Boyle. — An Irish-American 
poet and journalist, born 1844. His principal books 
are " Songs from the Southern Seas," " Songs, Le- 
gends and Ballads," and " Statues in the Block." 

Ensign Epps.. 295 

The 'Songs That Are Not Sung 557 

Osgood, Kate Putnam.— Born in Maine, 1840. 
Among her contributions to magazines is the well- 
known poem, " Driving Home the Cows." 

Driving Home the Cows 46 

Parker, Theodore. — A distinguished Ameri- 
can theologian, philosopher and social reformer, 
born in Mass., 1810. Was joint-editor with Emer- 
son and Cabot of the Massachusetts (^uarierly Re- 
view. Known chiefly as an advocate of simple 
theism in religion. His principal work is "Theism, 



736 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



Atheism, and the Popular Theology." Died in 1860 
at Florence, Italy. 

The Seasons of Life 613 

Parxell, Thomas. — A British poet, born in Dub- 
lin, 1679. He was intimate with Addison, Con- 
greve, Swift and Pope. "The Hermit" is one of 
his best poems. 

The Hermit 239 

Payxe, James. 

The Tired Woman's Epitaph 690 

Payxe, John Howard. — An actor and drama- 
tist, born in New York, 1792. From childhood he 
was considered a prodigy. In his 13th year he 
was a writer for the press and editor of the Thespi- 
an Mir7^o7\ At the age of 16 he appeared on the 
New York stage, and. in 1812 he went to England 
and made his rfe6;/^ at Drury Lane in his 21st year. 
"Home, Sweet Home" first appeared in Payne's 
"Clari,the Maid of Milan." He died at Tunis, 
while United States Consul there, in 1852. 

Home, Sweet Home 466 

Peabody, Oliver W. B. — An American author, 
born about 1790. Was associate editor of the 
North A mencan Review and professor of English 
literature in Jefferson College, La. Died 1847." 

The Backwoodsman 409 

Peale, Kembrandt. — An American artist, and 
also an author of note, born in Penns3dyaniM, 1778. 
Was the son of Charles Wilson Peale, the eminent 
portrait painter. Died 1860. 

Don't be Sorrowful, Darling 168 

Peck, Samuel Mixture. 

Is She Biding? 150 

Percival, James Gates. — A distinguished 
American poet and scholar, born in Connecticut in 
1795. In 1827 he was employed by Dr. Webster 
to revise the manuscript of his large Dictionar}-. 
He published "The Dream of a Day and other 
Poems," and an excellent translation of Malte- 
Brun's Geography. Died 1856. 

A Vision....;. 642 

The Coral Grove 477 

The Language of Flowers 334 

Perkixs, James H. — An American writer, born 
about 1810. Died 1849. 

Oh ^lerry, Merry be the Day 130 

Perry, Carlotta. 

The Boundary 561 

Perry, Nora. — An American poet, born in 
Rhode Island. Is the author of "After the Ball " 
and other popular poems. 

Sundered Friends 125 

Pike, Albert. — An American poet and journ- 
alist, and also a brilliant and eloquent lawyer, was 
born in Boston in 1809. His name is always asso- 
ciated with the Southwest, where he had removed 
at an early ago. In 1834 he became editor of The 
Arkansas Advocate at Little Rock. 

After the Midnight Cometh Morn 583 

PixTvXEY, Edward Coates. 

A Health 175 

PiERPOXT, .loTiN. — An American poet and Uni- 
tarian divine, born in Connecticut, 1785. The "Airs 



of Palestine," published in 1816, established his re- 
putation. Was a splendid writer of hymns. Died 
1866. 

My Child 100 

PoE, Edgar Allan. — An American poet, au- 
thor of that exquisite piece of mystery and music, 
"The Raven," was born in 1811 at Baltimore, 
"Annabel Lee," a tender lament for his dead wife, 
is one of the sweetest lyrics in the language. His 
prose tales are full of wild and absorbing interest. 
Reckless intemperance brought his short life to a 
close in 1849. 

Alone 40 

Annabel Lee 81 

The Bells 654 

The Raven 656 

PoLLOK, Robert. — A British clergyman and 
poet, born in Scotland, 1799. His reputation is 
based on " The Course of Time," a didactic poem, 
which found many admirers. Died 1827. 

Primeval Nature 480 

Pope, Alexax'der. — A celebrated English poet, 
born 1688. His pi-ecocity was remarkable and he 
began to write verses, as he himself says, farther 
back than he could well remember. His "Pastor- 
als," "Essays on Criticism," "The Rape of the 
Lock," and the "Messiah," were all written and 
published before 1712. The translation of the 
" Iliad " and his philosophic poem, " The Essay on 
Man," are among his principal works. He is noted 
for the keenness of his satire and the brilliancy of 
his antithesis. Died 1744. 

Advice to Poets 550 

Belinda 681 

Belinda's Toilet 681 

Ode on Solitude 606 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 233 

The Hereafter 574 

Unity of Nature 609 

Praed, Wixthrop Mackworth. — An English 
poet and lawyer, born 1802. He gained prizes 
while at Cambridge for the Greek ode and epigram 
and for two English poems. His poetry is highly 
commended for wit and elegance. Died 1839. 

The Belle of the Ball 684 

The Vicar 413 

Prextice, George Dexxisox. — An American 
poet and journalist, born in Connecticut, 1802. He 
conducted the Louisville Journal, which soon ac- 
quired the reputation of one of the ablest and 
most brilliant papers in the country. Died 1870. 

Sometime 579 

The Dead Mariner 98 

Prestox^ Margaret J. — An American poet, 
born in Virginia, "1838. Among her books are 
" Silverwood," " Beechenbrook " and others. 

"Philip, my King" 443 

Price, Sir Uvedale. — An English gentleman, 
born in 1747. Wrote a book on the subject of 
landscape-gardening, entitled " An Essaj' on the 
Picturesque as compared with the Sublime and 
Beautiful." Died 1829. 

Twilight...: 388 



AUTHORS' I^^DEX. 



737 



Prior, Matthew. — An English poet and diplo- 
matist, born 1664. In 1700 produced " Carmen 
Seculare," a poetical panegyric on William III., 
"which Johnson calls " one of his most splendid 
compositions." Died 1721. 

The Lady's Looking-glass 176 

Procter, Adelaide Anne. — An English poet, 
daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, born in 1825; 
published, among her other works, a volume of 
" Legends and Lyrics." Died 1864. 

A Dream 45 

A Woman's Question 168 

Procter, Bryan Waller. — An English poet, 
who wrote under the assumed name of "Barry 
Cornwall," born about 1790. Acquired distinc- 
tion by a volume entitled "Dramatic Scenes, and 
other Poems." His songs have obtained much 
popularity. Died 1874. 

A Chamber Scene 508 

APetition to Time 198 

Belshazzar 259 

Life 599 

Lowly Pleasures 396 

Softlv Woo Away Her Breath 103 

The Poet's Song to his Wife 198 

The Sea 370 

QuARLES, Francis. — A quaint but popnlar Eng- 
lish poet, born 1592. His most popular poem is 
" Emblems." Died 1644. 

Stanzas 185 

The Shortness of Life 607 

Raleigh, Sir Walter. — A famous English 
navigator, author, courtier, and commander, born 
in 1552. The Edinburgh Review ^axs: "His name 
is unquestionably one of the most renowned and 
attractive in English story. His mind presents a 
surprising union of strength and versatility, of intel- 
lectual and practical power, and of an observing 
and philosophical with a highly ima2:inative or 
poetical temperament." Beheaded at Westminster 
in 1618. 

Lines 223 

The Nvmph's Reply 189 

The Soul's Errand 573 

Ramsay, Allan. — A Scottish poet, and, except- 
ing Burns, the most thoroughly national bard his 
country has produced, was Born in 1685. His fame 
rests, on " The Gentle Shepherd," one of the finest 
dramatic pastorals ever penned. Died at Edin- 
burgh, 1758. 

Lochaber No More 144 

Randall, James Ryder. — An American jour- 
nalist and poet, born in Maryland, 1839. His spirit- 
ed lyric, *' jSIy Maryland," written in 1861, was 
very popular in the South during the civil war. 

Arlington • 273 

Maryland 271 

Read, Thomas Buchanan. — An American poet, 
born in Pennsylvania in 1822. His poems, " Sher- 
idan's Kide " and " The Wagoner of the Alleghan- 
ies," have achieved wide popularity. Died 1872. 

A Glimpse of Love 172 

Passing the Iceburgs 369 

The Wayside Spring 367 



Rice, Catherine MacDowell. 

Beyond the Gate 43 

Riley, James Whitcomb. 

A Song of Long Ago 71 

The Land of Thus-and-So 679 

Who Bides his Time 576 

Robinson, Agnes Mary Francis.— An Eng- 
lish poet and novelist, born 1857. "Janet Fisher," 
an excellent prose tale, "Life of Emily Bronte," 
and "The New Arcadia," are her best works. 

Remembrance 113 

Robertson, William. — A British historian and 
clergyman, born 1721. By his "History of Scot- 
land " he has acquired a place among British class- 
ical writers. Died 1793. 

Character of Mary Queen of Scots 450 

Rogers, Samuel. — An eminent English poet, 
born 1763. Is known as the author of "The Pleas- 
ures of Memory," a beautiful and highly finished 
poem, although "Italy" is his most extensive work. 
Died 1855, over 92 vears of age. 

Human Life....". \ 610 

Marco Griffoni 460 

Mernorv 533 

To the Butterfly 348 

Rossetti, Christina Georgika. — An English 
poet, sister of Dante Gabriel, born in 1830. Has 
written "Goblin Market," "The Prince's Pro- 



gress 



A Pageant," and other poems. 



The Milking Maid 408 

Up Hill 231 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. — An English paint- 
er and poet, born about 1828. He was the leader 
of the movement called Pre-Raphaelitism, an at- 
tempt to revive the style of the Italian painters who 
preceded Raphael. He published several volumes 
of poems. Died 1862. 

From "The Blessed Damozel " 645 

RusKiN, John. — An able, original and copious 
author, great English art critic and writer, born in 
London, 1819. His works have had a profound in- 
fluence on the age, exciting admiration by their 
impassioned eloquence and elevating the standard 
of morals by their lofty teachings. Besides " The 
Seven Lamps of Architecture "and "The Stones 
of Venice," he has written many other volumes on 
artistic subjects, and is the champion of Pre- 
Raphaelitism and Gothic architecture. 

Flowers 326 

Loss 115 

Misused Art 596 

Simplicity 577 

Ryan, Abram J. (Father Ryan). — A Catholic 
clergyman of Alabama, who possessed superior 
merit as a poet. 

Alone 249 

Rest 44 

Saxe, John Godfrey. — An American humor- 
ous poet, born in Vermont, 1816. His poems have 
obtained extensive popularity. 

I'm Growing Old 707 

John Howard Payne ; 441 

Spes est Vates 570 

Test of Friendship 581 



798 



AUTHORS' lOTJEX. 



Schiller, JoHAiw I^RiEbRiCEt von. — One of 
the most illustrious of German poets, born in 
Wurteniberg, 1759. His tragedy of "The Rob- 
bers," written in his 22d year, raised him at once 
to the foremost rank among the dramatists of his 
country, while his "Ballads" are reckoned among 
the finest in any language. Among the works 
which have immortalized his name are " Wallen- 
stein," " Mary Stuart," "Joan of Arc," and "Wil- 
liam Tell." 

The Poetry of Life 590 

Scott, Sir Walter. — A celebrated novelist 
and poet, born at Edinburgh, 1771. His poems 
are characterized by richness of imagination and 
brilliancy of coloring, while as a novelist he has 
attained the highestrank. Sir "Walter Scott, says 
a writer in Blackwood, " did for literature what 
Shakspere did for the drama, — provided a long and 
gorgeous gallery of great, noble and sublime char- 
acters, that live in all memories, and become, 
though they are fictitious, as real as if we all of us 
had actually seen and conversed with them." Died 
1882 

Allen-a-Dale 193 

A Storm}' Sunset by the Seaside 389 

A Woman's Forgiveness 129 

Death of Marmion 278 

Lochinvar 171 

Patriotism 261 

Serenade 163 

Still on the spot Lord Marmion staid 279 

The Old Minstrel 418 

The Poet's Mourners 559 

Time 611 

Twilight on the Battle-field 281 

Shakspere, William. — The greatest dramatic 
genius that ever lived, born at Stratford-upon-Avon 
in 1564. He seems to have enjoyed a large measure 
of the favor of his sovereigns. Queen Elizabeth and 
King James L Has written thirty-seven plays and 
154 sonnets, besides other poems. Died 1616. 

A Fool 579 

Anne Hathaway 433 

Antony's Oration 457 

Antony to Caesar's Body 458 

Apostrophe to Sleep 606 

Ariel's Song 634 

Balcony Scene 161 

Barbara's Song 78 

Cleopatra 437 

Concealed Love 149 

Cupid Defied 151 

Death of Ophelia Ill 

Elizabeth 449 

Fear 289 

Hamlet's Soliloquv 615 

Henry V. to His Soldiers 291 

Hotspur's Death 433 

Imagination 530 

Juliet Taking the Opiate 74 

Katharine and Petruchio 697 

Katharine's Defense 433 

Life 613 

Mercy 530 

Morning 381 



Mourning i. ..;........*........ llO 

Music 394 

Music and Love 159 

Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt 72 

Othello's Defense 171 

Perfection 534 

Polonius to Laertes 580 

Reputation 530 

Song; Blow, blow, thou winter wind 73 

Song: Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's 

gate sings 349 

Song: It was a lover and his lass 183 

Song: Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more., 188 

Song: Take, oh take those lips awa}^ 156 

Song: Tell me, where is Fancy bred ? 154 

Song: When daffodils begin to peer 315 

Song: Where the bee sucks, there suck I... 667 

Song: Who is Silvia? What is she? 439 

Sonnet; Let me not to the marriage of 

true minds 139 

Sonnet: The forward violet thus did I chide 154 
Sonnet: When to the sessions of sweet 

silent thought 137 

The Balconv Scene in "Romeo and Juliet" 161 

The Dream'^of Clarence 290 

The Fairy's Song 646 

The Fall of Wolsey 288 

The Fop 428 

The Ingratitude of Republics 293 

The Mind O'erthrown 555 

The World a Stage 597 

Thievery 694 

Unreality 579 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. — One of the best of 
English poets, born in 1792. Noted for his exquis- 
ite imagery and wonderful imagination. Shelley was 
early distinguished for his romantic and specula- 
tive turn of mind, as well as for a remarkable facil- 
ity in the acquisition of every kind of knowledge. 
Of singnlar and eccentric habits, he yet possessed 
noble traits of character. Among the most exquis- 
ite of his poetical creations are: "The Cloud," "To 
a Skylark," and "The Sensitive Plant." His " Pro- 
metheus Unbound," and " Adonais," an elegy on 
the death of John Keats, are well-known. Died 
1822. 

Autumn 307 

From the Dedication to "The Revolt of 

Islam" 140 

Love's Philosophy 190 

Night 388 

The Cloud : 376 

The Seasons 302 

The Sensitive Plant 334 

To 140 

To a Skylark 359 

Shexstone, William. — An English pastoral 
poet, born 1714. The "Schoolmistress" is his best 
known work. Died in 1763. 

The Schoolmistress 423 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley. — An English 
dramatist and statesman, born at Dublin, 1751. His 
dramas, "The Rivals" and "School for Scandal," 
gained for him the highest reputation as a comic 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



739 



Writer. Was well-known in politics and attained 
celebrity as an orator. Died 1816. 

Oh Had ]\[y Love Ne'er Smiled on Me 163 

Song from the Duenna 160 

Shirley, James. — An English dramatic writer, 
born about 1594. He was the author of thirty-nine 
plays and a volume of poetry. Died 1666. 

Death's Final Conquest 617 

Go Sit by the Summer Sea 149 

Song 318 

Sidney, Sir Philip. — An English poet, and a 
brilliant ornament of Elizabeth's court, born 1554. 
Wrote the celebrated pastoral, "Arcadia." In 1585 
he was appointed general in the expedition against 
the Netherlands, where he was killed at the seige 
of Ziitphen the same year. Was possessed of rare 
accomplishments and is an ideal of chivalry. 

Description of Arcadia .". .... 522 

Queen Elizabeth 449 

Sonnet: Come, sleep, O sleep, the certain 

knot of peace 45 

Wooing Stuffe 176 

SiGOURNEY, Lydia Huntley. — An American 
poet and miscellaneous writer, born in Connecticut, 
1791. Wrote " Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse," 
"Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands," and oth- 
ers. Died 1865. 

No Concealment .613 

The Early Bluebird 349 

SiMMS, William G-ilmore. — An American nov- 
elist and poet, whose writings embrace a list of six- 
ty volumes. Born in South Carolina in 1806; died 
in 1870. 

The Shaded Water 362 

Skelton, John. — A Scottish author, born 1831. 
He wrote "The Impeachment of Mary Stuart," 
and "Essavs in Romance." 

To Mrs. Margaret Hussey 436 

Smith, Alexander.— A Scottish poet, born 
1830. "The Life Drama," his first poem, was much 
admired. Died 1867. 

Intellectual Beauty 541 

Middle Age 614 

Sunset 390 

Smith, Horace. — A celebrated English wit and 
writer, born 1779. With his brother, James, he 
wrote a series of poems, humorous imitations of 
Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Scott, and other 
prominent writers of the time, which met with bril- 
liant success. Died 1849. 

Address to the Mummy 692 

H3'mn to the Flov/ers 344 

Smith, May Riley. — An American poet and 
miscellaneous writer, born in New York in 1842. 

Sometime 247 

Smith, S. F. 

From "America" 266 

Smith, Sidney. — A political writer, humorist, 
critic and preacher of extraordinar}' talents, and 
greatly distinguished for his wit, humor and conver- 
sational powers, born in England, 1771. Was one 
of the founders of the Edinburg Review. Died 
1845. 

Wit the Flavor of the Mind 676 



Southey, Carolln-e Anne Bowles. — An En- 
glish author of wide repute, born 1787. Wrote, be- 
sides other works, "Ellen Fitz-Arthur," a poem, 
and " The Widow's Tale, and other Poems." In 
1839 was married to Robert Southey. Died 1854. 

The Pauper's Death-bed 250 

Southey, Robert. — An English poet and mis- 
cellaneous writer, and a poet laureate of England, 
born 1774. He was an able and laborious writer, 
and his works were voluminous and covered a wide 
range of topics. His " Common-place Book," a 
posthumous publication in four volumes, is a mar- 
velous monument of his reading and research. Died 
1843. 

Birds of a Feather Flock Together 680 

Love 177 

Stanzas 612 

The Days of Infancy are all a Dream 592 

The Holly Tree 340 

Spencer, Hon. William Robert. — A distin- 
guished English writer, son of Lord Charles Spen- 
cer, was born 1770. Died in 1834. 

To the Lady Anne Hamilton 188 

Spenser, Edmund. — One of the most illustrious 
of English poets, born in London about 1553. His 
first poem, "The Shepherd's Calendar," he dedica- 
ted to Sir Philip Sidney, who became his patron, 
and introduced him at court. But his chief poem, 
"The Faerie Queene," forms one of the treasures of 
our language. Died 1598. Spenser is one of the 
most purely poetic of all poets. 

May 318 

The Seasons 300 

Una 430 

Spofeord, Harriet Prescott, — An American 
poet and prose writer, born in Maine, 1835. Her 
works are mostly poems and tales. 

High Days and Holidays 605 

Sprague, Charles. — An American poet, born 
in Boston, 1791. His most extensive work is "Cur- 
iosity," a didactic and satirical poem. His poems 
exhibit much skill in the use of language. Died 
1875. 

The Winged Worshipers 215 

Stanton, Henry T. 

The Moneyless Man 60 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence. — An American 
poet, born in Connecticut, 1833. Among his works 
are " Poems, Lyric and Idyllic," "Alice of Mon- 
mouth," and "The Victorian Poets." 

Cavalry Song 275 

Summer Rain 331 

The Door-step 157 

Sterling, John. — A British poet and miscellane- 
ous writer, born 1806. Was the author of "Arthur 
Coningsby," "Straflbrd, a Tragedy," and others. His 
biography has been written bv Carlyle. Died 1844. 

The Husbandman, ,' 411 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher.— Daughter of Dr. 
Lyman Beecher, born in Connecticut, 1812. Has 
obtained a world-wide reputation as the author of 
" Uncle Tom's Cabin," a book that has gone 
through hundreds of editions and been republished 
and translated into all the principal languages of 



740 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



the earth. Among her other works are *' Dred, A 
Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp" and "The Min- 
ister's AVooing," 

Love 163 

Stoddard, Kichard Hexry. — An American 
poet, born in Massachusetts, 1825. In 1852 he mar- 
ried Elizabeth Barstow, a poet. Among his later 
works are " The King's Bell, and " The Book of the 
East." 

Burial of Lincoln 461 

It Never Comes Again 39 

November '. 309 

The Rain 365 

The Statue in Clay 231 

Thoughts 542 

Why^Not? 153 

Story, William Wetmore. — A lawyer and 
sculptor, born in Massachusetts, 1819. Among his 
productions are " Poems," " Nero' a Tragedy,', and 
several works on art. 

A Musical Box 685 

loYictis 80 

The Violet 331 

Street, Alfred B. — An American poet, born 
in New York in 1811. Died 1881. 

A Forest Walk 494 

Strode, William. — An English divine and poet, 
born 1598. Died 1644. 

Music 396 

SucKLiXG, Sir John. — An English poet, born 
about 1608, and celebrated as a wit at the court of 
Charles I. His reputation rests chiefly on his lyric 
poems, but he also wrote several dramas and satires. 
Died about 1642. ^ ■ _ 

A Ballad upon a Wedding 37 

Send Back My Heart .' 173 

Song: Why so pale and wan, fond lover?... .173 
Surrey, Hexry Howard, Earl of. — A cele- 
brated i]nglish poet, born about 1516. He excelled 
in the accomplishments of a scholar, courtier and 
soldier, and cultivated as well as patronized the fine 
arts. Surrey is the first who used blank verse in our 
language, and is considered thefirst English classical 
poet. He translated the second book of the ^neid, 
and wrote numerous sonnets and songs. Was exe- 
cuted in 1547. 

Sonnet: The soote seson that bud and 

bloom forth brings .317 

Swain, Charles. — An English writer and en- 
graver, known as " The Manchester Poet," born in 
that city in 1803. His " Dryburgh Abbey,"_ an 
elegv on Sir Walter Scott, is particularly admired. 
Died 1874. 

Home Happiness.. 143 

The Coquette 168 

What It Is to Love 127 

Swinburne, Charles Algernon. — An English 
poet, born 1837. His first publications v/ere the 
following poetical dramas : "The Queen Mother and 
Kosamond," "Atalanta in Calydon," and "Chastel- 
ard." Has since written a great number of other 
works. 

Chorus from "Atalanta in Calydon" 590 

Etude Realiste 123 



Spring 315 

The Interpreters 578 

Swift, Jonathan, Dean. — A celebrated hu- 
morist and satirist, born in Dublin in 1667. " The 
Tale of the Tub" is generally considered his master- 
piece as a piece of satire, "condensed, pointed, full 
of biting satire and of felicitous analogy." His 
most popular work is his famous " Travels of Lem- 
uel Gulliver," a satirical romance. In the latter 
part of his life, he became morose, misanthropic 
and solitary. Died 1745. 

Aphorisms and Comparisons 568 

Characteristics of Modein Critics 560 

Sylvester, Joshua. — An English Puritan wri- 
ter, born 1563. Died 1618. 

A Contented JNlind 551 

Tannahill, Robert. — A Scottish poet, born 
1774. His songs and ballads are remarkable for 
their erace, simplicitv and pathos. Died 1810. 

The Flower of Dumblane 129 

Taylor, Benjamin F.— A brilliant American 
journalist and poet. Born in New York, 1822. Has 
written "Pictures in Camp and Field," "The 
World on Wheels," and "Songs of Yesterday." 

The Burning of Chicago 505 

Taylor, (James) Bayard. — A distinguished 
American poet, novelist, journalist and traveler. 
Born in Pennsylvania in 1825. He wrote "Views 
Afoot ; or Europe seen with Knapsack and Staif," 
"El Dorado," "Life and Landscapes from Egypt," 
and many other books, records of his travels and 
explorations. Was appointed minister to Germany 
in 1878, and died at BfM-lin the same vcai-. 

From "The Song of the Camp"' 159 

Proposal 196 

The Phantom 104 

The Press 402 

Taylor, Jeremy. — An English prelate, born in 
1613. Among his eloquent works are: "The 
Great Exemplar, or the Life and Death of Jesus 
Christ;" " Holy Living and Dying," and several 
sermons and controversial and pious treatises. Died 
1667. 

Habit 245 

The Skylark 341 

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, D. C. L. and F. 
K. S., raised to the peerage in 1883 as Baron Ten- 
nyson d'Eyncourt of Aldworth. Poet-laureate of 
England. Born in 1809. He is the representative 
poet of the recent era. In his poetry the thought 
and words are exquisitely adjusted to each other, 
producing almost the perfection of poetic form. 
" The Princess, A Medley," " In Memoriam," 
" Maud" and the "Idylls of the King" are among 
the best known of his longer poems. 

Annie's Dream 118 

Break, Break. Break 56 

Bugle Song..: 385 

Charge of the Light Brigade 295 

Enoch's Return 53 

From " The Princess" 36 

Home Thev Brought Her Warrior Dead.... 82 

Lullaby....". 130 

Selections from " In Memoriam" 101 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



741 



Come Into the Garden, ^Mjiud 166 

Song from "The Princess" 53 

Song of the Brook 481 

The Days that are No More 623 

Tennyson, Frederick. 

Women and Children 409 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. — A popular 
English novelist and humorist, the contemporary 
of Dickens, was born in Calcutta in 1811. Display- 
ed superior talent for humor and irony. "Vanity 
Fair" is commonly accepted as his masterpiece. He 
was gifted in the use of the pencil as well as the 
pen, and illustrated some of his own works with 
designs of much originality and humor. Died in 
1863. 

At the Church Gate 186 

The Sorrows of Werther 690 

The AVorld's Indifference 46 

Thaxter, Mrs. Celia. — An American poet, 
born in New Hampshire, 1835. Her principal 
works are "Among the Isles of Shoals," "Drift- 
wood" and "Poems for Children." 

The Sunrise Never Failed Us Yet 525 

Thom, William. — A Scottish poet, born in 1799. 
Published "Khymes and Recollections of a Hand- 
Loom Weaver." Died in great destitution in 1848. 

The Mitherless Bairn 75 

Thomas, Edith M. 

Migration 85 

The Interpreter 153 

Thompson, John Eandolph. — An American 
litterateur, born in Virginia, 1823. Was long the 
editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Died 
1873. 

Music in Camp 271 

Thomson, James. — An English poet, born 1700. 
His four great Poems, published collectively as 
" The Seasons," are his best known works. " The 
Castle of Indolence," though less generally read, is 
more carefully finished, and in some respects de- 
serves the highest praise. Died in 1748. 

From "The Castle of Indolence" 513 

Lost in the Snow 311 

Morning 382 

Morning Pleasures 378 

The Heritage 545 

The Symphony of Spring 316 

Trout-flshing 317 

Thoreau, Henry David. — An American au- 
thor and naturalist, born in Mass., 1817, of very 
eccentric habits. He lived two years as a hermit in 
a small frame house on the shore of Walden Pond, 
near Concord, in studious retirement, and publish- 
ed an account of this portion of his life in a book 
entitled "Walden." Died 1862. 

Noonday Rest 470 

Upon the Beach 530 

ToPLADY, Augustus Montague. 

Rock of Ages 214 

Trench, Rev. Richard Chevenix. — An emi- 
nent English ecclesiastic and philologist, born 1807. 
Was created Archbishop of Dublin in 1863. His 
poem, " The Story of Justin Martyr," and "Poems 



from Eastern Sources," are well-known. 

The Spilt Pearls 252 

Some Murmur When Their Sky is Clear... 35 
Trollope, Anthony. — An English novelist, born 
1815. Has written a great many books, among 
them "Orley Farm," " The Warden," " South Af- 
rica," and " Life of Cicero." Died 1882. 

Letter-writing 560 

Tuckerman, Henry Theodore. — An American 
critic and miscellaneous writer, born in Boston, 
1813. Occupies a high rank among the art critics 
of America. Died 1871. 

A Defense of Enthusiasm ,531 

Sonnet, on the Proposition of the N. Y. 
Historical Society .485 

To the "Eve" of Powers 55 

Tychborn, Chidiock. — An English poet, who 
shared in Babington's conspiracy and was executed 
with him in 1586. He wtr*" a very young man at the 
time. His " Lines Written by One in the Tower" 
is the best known of his productions. 

Lines Written by One in the Tower 73 

Vaughan, Henry. — A British poet and physic- 
ian, born in 1621, and called " The Silurist," be- 
cause a native of Siluria, or South Wales. Was 
the author of devotional poems and other works. 
Died 1695. 

Beyond the Veil 94 

Vedder, David. — A Scottish poet, born in 1790. 
Published a number of volumes of prose and verse. 
Died 1854. 

The Temple of Nature 234 

Waller, Edmund. — An eminent English poet, 
born 1605 ; was a cousin-german of the celebrated 
John Hampden. His principal poems are " Pane- 
gyric on Cromwell," " On the Death of the Lord 
Protector," and an ode to Charles 11., entitled " To 
the King upon his Majesty's Most Happy Return." 
Died 1687. 

Go, Lovely Rose 184 

Old Age and Death 612 

Wastel, Simon. — An English poet and school- 
master, born about 1566. Is chiefly remembered 
for his " True Christian's Daily Delight." 

Man's Mortality.... ......610 

Weatherly, George. 

Good News or Bad? 29 

Sunlight and Shade 29 

WebsteB; Augusta. — An English poet, born 
1840. Among her writings are " Prometheus 
Bound," after ^Eschylus, "Medea," after Euripides, 
and other volumes of verse besides prose works. 
Some of her books are published under the name 
of " Cecil Home." One of the most thoughtful 
writers of the modern school. 

At Sorrento -. ...510 

The Gift 130 

Webster, Daniel. — A celebrated American 
statesman, jurist, and by many considered "the 
greatest orator that ever lived in the Western Hem- 
isphere," was born in New Hampshire in 1782. He 
was the master-spirit in legislative debate during 
his life-time. His reply to Hayne of South Caro- 



742 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



lina,in defense of the Union and tlie Constitution, is 
regarded as the most remarkable speech ever made 
iuCongress. Died 1852, 

Education 579 

Wesley, Charles. — An English preacher and 
writer of Hymns, born 1708. Was a brother of 
the celebrated reformer, John Wesley. He gained 
great distinction as a writer of hymns. Died 1788. 

Jesus, Lover of My Soul 228 

Westwood, Thomas. — An English poet, born in 
1814. He has published " Beads from a Kosary," 
" The Burden of the Bell," and " Berries and Blos- 
soms." 

Do You Eemember How We Used to Pace.. 165 

Little Bell 30 

Under My Window 30 

Weir, Harrison. — An English artist, born 1824. 
He was apprenticed to a wood-engraver, and won 
distinction as a water-color painter and book illus- 
trator. 

Christmas in the Woods 212 

Welby, Amelia B. — An American poet born 
in Maryland, 1821. She subsequently moved to 
Kentucky, where she contributed numerous poems 
to the Louisville Journal under the signature of 
"Amelia." Died 1852. 

Summer Evening 393 

The Summer Birds 357 

White, (Henhy) Kirke. — An English poet, 
born in 1785. As a child he was remarkable for pre- 
cocity of intellect, and distinguished himself by his 
attainments in the ancient and modern languages, 
music and natural science. He studied for the min- 
istry, but the severe application was too much for 
his frail constitution, and he died in 1806. 

The Star of Bethlehem 251 

To an Early Primrose 338 

White, Joseph Blanco. — A distinguished wri- 
ter, born at Seville, Spain, ]775; was descended 
from an Irish family settled there. In Spain he 
was called " Blanco," which he afterwards ex- 
changed for its English equivalent, "White." Is 
the author of a sonnet entitled "Night," highly 
commended by Coleridge. Died 1841. 

Sonnet on Night 391 

Whitman, Walt. — An American poet, born in 
Long Island, N. Y., 1819. Was a journalist in 
New York. Published "Leaves of Grass," "Drum- 
Taps," " Specimen Days and Collect," and others. 
His style is exceedingly eccentric. 

With Husky-haughty Lips, O Sea 373 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. — A distinguish- 
ed American poet and philanthropist, born in 
Mass., 1808. Belonged to the sect of Quakers. 
Early identified himself with the anti-slavery party. 
Among his best known works are : " In War-Time, 
and other Poems," " Snow-Bound," "The Tent on 
the Beach," "Miriam," and "Ballads of New Eng- 
land." 

A Dream of Summer 322 

From "Miriam" 229 

Memories 545 

Proem 525 



Song from " The Tent on the Beach " 228 

The Barefoot Boy 57 

The Forsaken Farmhouse 510 

The Mvstic's Christmas 211 

TheKeward 569 

The Snow-storm 312 

The Wood Giant 347 

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler. — An American poet, 
a contributor to periodical literature, and has pub- 
lished several volumes of verse. 

The Disappointed 91 

The Way of the World 603 

Wilde, Richard Henry. — An author and law- 
yer, born in Dublin, 1789. Was a child when his 
parents emigrated to the United States. For twen- 
ty'- years he was an M. C. from Georgia. Besides 
his "Torquato Tasso," a work of great merit, he 
also wrote a immber of popular Ivrics. Died 1847. 

Life ■; 608 

Sonnet to the Mocking-Bird 354 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker. — A distinguished 
American journalist and poet, born at Portland, 
Me., 1807. His volume, "Pencillings by the Way," 
procured him a wide popularity. Also wrote "Ink- 
lings of Adventure," "Dashes at Life with a free 
Pencil," and a great many others. Became in 1846 
associated with George P. Morris, as editor of the 
Home Journal, a literarv periodical published in 
New York. Died in 1867. 

Better Moments 123 

Dawn..^.....~. o 377 

On the Ficture of a Child Tired of Play.... 566 

LTnseen Spirits 422 

Wilson, John. — Otherwise known as "Chris- 
topher North," a celebrated Scottish author, critic 
and poet, born in 1785. Contributed a series of 
brilliant articles to Blackwood' s Magazine. In 1820 
was elected to the chair of moral philosophy at the 
University of Edinburgh, which he held for over 
thirty years. Died 1854. 

The Evening Cloud 376 

Wilson, Robert Burns. 

June Days 325 

In the October Fields 304 

WiNSLOW, Harriet. 

Why Thus Longing? 619 

Winter, William. — An American poet and 
critic, born in Mass., 1836. Was dramatic critic 
for several New York journals. Has edited the 
works of some of the poets, and written volumes of 
merit himself. 

In Watches of the Night 116 

The Apples are Ripe in the Orchard 91 

Withers, George. — An English poet, satirist 
and political writer, born 1588. His Avorks are very 
numerous, and consist chiefly of lyrics and devo- 
tional pieces. Died 1667. 

Vanished Blessings 83 

Wolcot, John. — An English poet and humorist, 
born 1738. Wrote under the name of " Peter Pin- 
dar." Died 1819. 

The Pilgrim and the Peas .706 



AUTHORS' INDEX. 



743 



WoLPE, Charles.— An Irish clergyman and 
poet, born 1791. His works consist of sermons, 
prose sketches, and lyric poems of great beauty. 
His " Burial of Sir John Moore" is esteemed one of 
the finest productions of the kind in the language. 
Died in 1823. 

Song: If I had thought thou couldst have 

died .' 94 

The Burial of Sir John Moore ..263 

Wood WORTH, Samuel. — An American journal- 
ist and poet, born in Mass., 1785. Was the author 
of a number of lyrics. His " Old Oaken Bucket" 
has been very popular. Died 1842. 

The Old Oaken Bucket 398 

Wordsworth, William. — An illustrious En- 
glish poet, born 1770. Is pre-eminently the poet 
of reflective imagination. His sonnets have a high 
rank in English poetry, while his " Ode on the In- 
timations of Immortality" is one of the finest 
poems in the language. Succeeded Southey as poet- 
laureate in 1843.^ Died 1850. 

At the Grave of Burns 445 

Daffodils 347 

Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern 

Abbey 503 

Lucv 83 

Nutting 496 

Ode on Immortality 585 

Sonnet composed upon Westminster 

Bridge 503 

Sonnet: The world is too much with 

us 508 

The Poet's Wife 440 

TheEainbow 348 

WoTTON, Sir Henry. — An English diplomatist 
and writer, born in 1568. Wrote several short 
and beautiful poems and prose works. Died in 
1639. 

The Happy Life 543 

To his Mistress the Queen of Bohemia 452 

Young, Charlotte. 

Mother Nature 33 

Young, Edward. — An eminent English poet, 
born 1684. "Night Thoughts" is the poem on 
which his reputation is chiefly founded. Died 

For Praise 550 

Lines 681 

Man 592 

Night 384 

Procrastination 551 



Anonymous. 

A Bird's Song. 661 

A Holida3^ Idyl 139 

Answer of the Mummv 693 

At the King's Gate '. 41 

Beautiful Snow 71 

Carpe Diem 324 

Comin' Through the Eye 183 

Don't Take it to Heart 580 

Down on the Suwannee Eiver 71 

Echoes 528 

EvervDay 576 

Fair Weather and Foul , 371 

Fishing 689 

Grandmother's Sermon Ill 

He Never Knowed 696 

In Time to Come 117 

Ivy 329 

Little Brown Hands 407 

Midwinter 313 

My Own Shall Come 151 

Mv Letter 141 

My Saint 144 

Nobody 689 

No Sects in Heaven 243 

On Her Birthday 137 

Only a Little Way 250 

On the Threshold 38 

Parting 78 

Pristine Proverbs for Precocious Pupils ....679 

Eobin Hood and the Curtail Friar 674 

Scandal 580 

Sea Ventures 118 

Somebody 576 

Sonnet: A Jersey Summer Day 381 

Sonnet: Life, joy and splendor with the 

year awake , 35 

Sweet Home , 467 

The Birth of Green Erin ;....696 

The Bridge of Snow 125 

The Devil 689 

The Fault of the Puppy 679 

The Georgia Volunteer 116 

The House of Clay 36 

The Old Couple 192 

The Sea... 709 

This Life is what we Make it 578 

Treu uud Fest 161 

Trust 232 

Waiting 47 

Whatever Is, is Best 237 

When Shall We Three Meet Again ? 117 

Who Can Judge a Man from Manners? 577 

A Literary Curiosity. Medley 712 






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